LIBRARY) 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEO 


/a./ 


THE 


HERESY  OF  MEHETABEL  CLARK 


BY 


ANNIE  TRUMBULL  SLOSSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SEVEN  DREAMERS  "  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

HARPER  AND  BROTHERS 


Copyright,  1892,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


THE   HERESY   OF   MEHETABEL 
CLARK 


;E  had  come  to  the  mountains 
very  early  that  year.  It  was 
only  the  first  of  June  now, 
and  we  had  been  nearly  three 
weeks  among  the  northern 
hills.  When  we  came  old  Lafayette  wore 
a  huge  cap  of  dazzling  white,  and  there 
was  some  snow  upon  the  other  mountains, 
and  in  hollows  and  shaded  spots  in  the 
forests.  But  even  then,  in  the  earliest 
days  of  May,  there  were  many  signs  of 
the  coming  spring — that  spring  of  north 
ern  New  England,  whose  slow,  lingering, 
shy  advance  is  so  very  beautiful. 


The  trees  —  except  the  evergreens  — 
were  leafless;  but  the  hill -side  forests 
wore  that  tender  haze,  or  misty  bloom, 
too  faint  and  delicate  to  call  color,  but 
suggesting  palest  mauves  and  olives  and 
grays,  and  here  and  there  among  them 
the  swamp-maple  showed  its  red  buds. 

Already  the  straw-yellow  flowers  of  the 
adder's-tongue  drooped  above  their  odd, 
spotted  leaves,  and  the  wood  anemone 
showed  its  frail  white  blossoms.  The  vi 
olets  were  out,  too,  the  tiny,  sweet  white 
ones  along  the  brook-sides,  the  round- 
leaved  yellow  ones  in  rocky  places  along 
the  road,  and  selkirks  with  blue,  long- 
spurred  flowers  peeping  out  where  some 
little  cold  rill  trickled  slowly  down  from 
the  mountain — a  promise  of  the  real 
spring ;  a  mere  whisper  of  a  promise,  but 
one  sure  to  be  fulfilled. 

And  now  it  was  June,  the  very  first  of 
that  lovely  month,  a  warm,  soft,  sunny 
day,  and  we  were  spending  it  out-doors. 


We  were  boarding  in  the  village  that  sea 
son  ( in  Franconia,  I  mean )  at  Deacon 
Whipple's — Deacon  Seth,  as  he  was  al 
ways  called,  to  distinguish  him  from  Dea 
con  Ephraim  Whipple  of  the  same  town. 
He  was  not  a  native  of  Franconia,  but 
was  born  in  Sugar  Hill,  some  three  miles 
away,  in  the  town  of  Lisbon,  and  to-day 
he  was  taking  us  out  in  his  roomy,  com 
fortable  wagon  to  show  us  his  native 
place. 

Down  the  village  street  we  went,  past 
post-office  and  store  and  across  the  bridge 
over  Gale  River.  Then  we  wound  slowly 
uphill.  The  apple-trees  were  just  com 
ing  into  full  bloom,  the  bird-cherries  were 
losing  their  flowers,  but  the  choke-cher 
ries  were  white  with  spikes  of  feathery 
blossoms  filling  the  air  with  their  bitter 
sweet  scent.  On  we  went,  past  meadows 
where  the  golden  dandelions  lay  thick 
among  the  fresh  young  grass,  pastures 
where  the  eyebrights  clustered  so  closely 


that  they  looked  at  a  distance  like  drifted 
snow ;  past  brooks  where  the  clear  white 
water  shone  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  blue 
and  white  violets  peeped  out  along  the 
banks.  Maple,  willow,  elm,  birch,  beech 
and  alder  were_all  in  full  leaf  now,  and 
we  drove  along  in  a  golden-green  light, 
as  the  sunshine  came  down  through  the 
leaves.  We  were  in  no  haste  that  day, 
and  again  and  again  we  stopped  to  gath 
er  wild-flowers,  ferns,  or  mosses,  to  chase 
a  curious  insect,  or  again  to  drop  a  line 
into  a  tempting  hole  under  the  shadow 
of  a  rock  in  Oakes's  Brook.  With  tiarella, 
straw-lilies,  gold-thread,  trillium,  cassan- 
dra,  labrador  tea,  our  hands  and  laps 
were  soon  full ;  and  at  our  feet  lay  a  big 
bunch  of  the  rhodora,  its  leafless  branch 
es  covered  with  lovely  flowers  of  purple- 
pink. 

Deacon  Seth  was  a  pleasant  compan 
ion,  and  had  a  story  for  every  spot  on  the 
way.  He  told  us  of  the  queer  city-folks 


who  sometimes  came  to  the  hotels  which 
we  were  passing,  and  of  the  old  days  be 
fore  those  hotels  existed.  He  pointed 
out  the  Salmon-hole  Road,  turning  off  at 
our  right  beyond  Goodnow's,  and  related 
a  thrilling  incident  of  a  drive  down  there 
on  a  night  of  storm  and  darkness.  Then> 
as  we  came  to  the  little  school-house,  he 
told  a  pathetic  tale  of  a  little  daughter, 
Marietty,  dead  long  years  ago,  but  whose 
memory  was  as  fresh  and  green  in  the  old 
man's  heart  as  the  springing  grass  and 
budding  leaves  on  this  fair  June  day.  Off 
there  was  the  old  gold-mine,  which  once 
raised  such  hopes  and  sunk  so  many  dol 
lars,  and  farther  away,  lying  part  in  Lis 
bon  and  part  in  East  Landaff,  Ore  Mount 
ain,  with  its  treasures  of  iron  still  hidden 
underground. 

And  so,  through  light  and  perfume  and 
color  and  sound,  sunshine  and  flower- 
scent,  the  green  of  leaf  and  bright  tint  of 
blossom,  the  song  of  birds  and  murmur 


of  brooks,  we  came  in  sight  of  Sugar  Hill 
Street.  Such  a  tiny  side -hill  village  it 
was,  with  its  little  church,  post-office, 
store,  and  the  few  dwellings  all  on  one 
road-like,  downhill  street.  It  was  so  quiet 
on  that  June  day.  As  we  drove  along  we 
saw  no  one,  heard  no  sound  of  human 
life,  except  the  laugh  of  one  little  rosy 
child,  playing  on  the  grass  among  the 
dandelions.  A  peaceful,  restful  little 
hamlet,  it  looked  as  if  no  sin  or  shame 
or  strife  could  ever  enter  it,  and  one  of 
us  said  so,  as  we  looked  from  the  green 
knoll  on  which  the  church  stands,  over 
the  little  village.  Deacon  Seth  sighed 
heavily,  was  silent  a  moment,  then  turned 
and  said,  "  Yes,  it  does  look  that  way. 
I've  often  heard  folks  say  that — boarders 
that  I've  fetched  up  here.  I  don't  often 
say  anything  back,  for  I  can't  bear  gen'r- 
ally  to  talk  about  it.  But  I  don't  seem 
to  mind  tellin'  you,  you're  so  much  like 
our  own  folks,  bein'  here  every  year,  and 


so  on."  He  waited  a  minute  or  two,  and 
we  asked  no  question.  Then  he  said, 
abruptly  but  solemnly,  "  For  all  it  looks 
so  peaceable  and  pious  and  soothin',  yet 
right  here,  in  this  Christian  community, 
under  the  shadow  of  this  sanctuary,  's 
you  might  say,  somethin'  happened  that 
went  to  show  how  Satan  can  find  his  way 
even  into  the  godliest  spot." 

He  lowered  his  voice,  and,  speaking 
almost  in  an  awe-struck  whisper,  he  said, 
"  We  had  once,  and  for  a  long  spell  too, 
in  our  very  midst  and  'mongst,  a  here 
tic  !"  Pointing  with  his  whip  down  the 
road,  he  added,  "  'Twas  in  that  old  red 
house.  You  see,  it's  a  shop  now —  Ed 
Wilbur's  joiner's  shop;  but  it's  standin' 
there  still,  a  pillar  and  moniment,  re- 
mindin'  us  allers,  allers  of  that  dreadful 
disgrace  and  sorrow." 

And  then  he  told  us  the  story,  told  it 
as  we  drove  slowly  along,  hour  after  hour 
of  that  summer  day,  over  into  the  Landaff 


valley,  on  and  on  towards  Bungay,  and 
homeward  to  Franconia  in  the  early  even 
ing.  I  shall  try  to  tell  it  to  you  in  his 
own  words,  with  no  comments  of  my 
own. 

Deacon  Seth  had  been  brought  up  in 
that  old  New  England  school  which  so 
many  of  us  remember,  and  which  we  re 
call  with  a  certain  tenderness  after  all, 
whatever  now  may  be  our  varying  creeds. 
It  was  a  school  of  rigid,  iron-bound  for 
mulas,  which  set  forth  what  they  who 
used  them  thought  they  ought  to  believe, 
rather  than  what  they,  in  their  good  old 
hearts,  really  did  believe.  To  them  re 
ligion  was  not  only  dogmatic,  but  con 
sisted  wholly  of  dogmas ;  and  belief  in 
those  dogmas  was  what  they  understood 
as  saving  faith.  And  he  remained  true 
to  that  ancient  faith,  which  he  was  proud 
to  call  orthodoxy.  Nor  would  he  tone 
down  or  soften  any  of  its  asperities,  make 
more  gentle  one  of  its  stern  expressions. 


This  was  the  deacon  as  a  theologian.  In 
daily  life  Deacon  Seth  Whipple  was  a 
genial,  kindly,  mellow  soul,  loving  Nature 
in  all  her  varied  forms,  and  with  a  warm, 
soft  heart  for  little  children,  and  all  weak, 
helpless  things. 

That  he  did  not  seem,  while  telling  his 
story,  to  grasp  the  deeper  meaning  we 
found  therein,  and  which  I  hope  you,  too, 
will  see,  was  not  owing  to  any  lack  of 
intellectual  power.  But  he  had  been 
trained  from  his  birth  to  see  and  walk  in 
one  narrow,  strictly-bounded  path,  and  he 
shut  his  eyes  to  any  other  as  dangerous. 
I  think,  and  you  may  also  think,  that  he 
saw  many  of  the  truths  that  the  story  told 
us,  otherwise  his  words  could  not  have 
•made  us  see  them  so  plainly.  But  train 
ing,  tradition,  heredity,  all  forbade  his 
acknowledging,  even  to  himself,  how 
much  he  saw. 

"  Her  name —  There,  I  knew  you'd 
jump  at  that.  Yes,  'twas  a  woman !  I 


don't  know  why  it  seems  so  much  worse 
for  one  of  them  to  be  an  unbeliever,  but 
it  does,  don't  it,  now?  Both  was  made 
alike  in  the  image  of  God,  the  Bible  says; 
but  somehow  it's  so  everlastin'  unnat'ral 
and  queer  for  women  folks  not  to  believe 
things.  Her  name  —  as  I  begun  to  say 
afore  —  was  Mehetabel  Clark.  She  was 
daughter  to  Jephunneh  Clark,  one  of  the 
godliest  men  I  ever  see.  Her  mother, 
she  come,  too,  of  good,  pious  stock ;  she 
was  a  Quimby  from  Bethl'hem  ;  and  Me 
hetabel  was  raised  in  the  most  orthodox, 
straight  up  and  down  way.  And  she  took 
to  it  from  her  birth,  'most.  You  couldn't 
hardly  tell  when  savin'  grace  entered  into 
her  heart,  for  she  was  allers  a  pious,  God- 
fearin'  child,  though  she  didn't  become  a 
perfessor  till  near  twelve.  When  she  was 
scurse  thirteen  I've  heard  her  lead  in 
prayer,  and  she  knew  her  Bible  by  heart. 
And  hymns! — why,  she'd  reel  'em  off  by 
the  yard.  She  liked  the  best  ones,  too, 


the  sound,  good  old-fashioned  sort,  that 
told  what  would  happen  to  the  unrepent- 
in'  sinner,  and  dwelt  in  poetry  on  the 
doctrines  and  decrees  and  judgments. 
They  didn't  have  the  wishy-washy  stuff 
young  folks  sing  to-day,  and  if  they  had 
had  it,  Mehetabel  wouldn't  have  took  to 
it,  I  know. 

"  She  was  well  versed  in  the  catechism, 
too — the  Westminster  Shorter.  She  knew 
all  about  foreordination  and  election  and 
covenanted  mercies  before  she  could  talk 
plain,  and  justification,  adoption,  and  sanc- 
tification  was  as  easy  as  A,  B,  C  to  Mehet 
abel  allers.  And  she  growed  up  into  a 
girl,  the  same  kind  of  solemn,  sober-mind 
ed,  religious  young  woman.  Some  folks 
thought  she  was  too  solemn  for  a  young 
thing.  She  never  went  to  parties  or  pic 
nics  or  sleigh-rides,  or  any  of  them  frolics 
among  the  young  folks.  She  scursely  ever 
laughed  ;  for  you  see  she  realized  what  a 
solemn  thing  life  is,  and  that  time  is  dread- 


ful  short  at  the  best,  and  even  three-score 
and  ten  comes  mighty  quick,  after  all.  And 
as  for  me,  I  think  it's  a  nice  thing  to  see 
youth  feelin'  that  way.  They  don't  much 
nowadays ;  they're  careless  and  light- 
minded  mostly,  partic'lar  the  summer 
boarders.  She  wa'n't  a  very  happy  person, 
to  be  sure ;  but  then  we  ain't  meant  to  be 
happy  in  this  world  ;  that  wasn't  what  we 
was  made  for.  And  it's  a  bad  sign,  I  allers 
say,  to  see  any  one  feelin'  too  comforta 
ble  and  satisfied.  And  though  she  seem 
ed  so  religious  and  pious-minded  to  other 
folks,  she  was  forever  mournin'  over  her 
sins  and  fearin*  she  wasn't  goin'  to  be 
saved  at  the  last.  Sometimes  she'd  have 
it  that  she'd  committed  the  unpardona 
ble  sin,  and  again,  for  a  spell,  that  she 
wasn't  elected,  and  there  wasn't  any  use 
keepin'  on  tryin'.  And  then  come  up  that 
kind  of  nat'ral  fear  that  she  couldn't  be 
perfectly  resigned  and  comfortable  if  she 
knew  she  was  condemned  to  eternal  pun- 


ishment,  and  she  worried  and  fretted  over 
that  for  a  spell.  That  was  foolish,  of 
course,  for  I  don't  doubt  she'd  have  took 
it  all  right  and  been  as  patient  's  you 
please.  I've  seen  a  good  many  Christians 
in  my  time,  young  and  old,  but  I've  said 
time  and  again,  and  say  it  now,  that  I 
never  see  one  that  seemed  to  know  bet 
ter  just  exactly  what  a  Christian  had  and 
hadn't  ought  to  be  than  Mehetabel-Clark 
in  them  days.  She  had  such  a  realizin' 
sense  of  God's  justice  and  power  and  ven 
geance,  why, '  twas  a  lesson  to  see  and 
hear  her.  'Twas  beautiful,  I  tell  you,  such 
understandin'  of  His  natur'  and  attributes 
in  one  so  young.  Of  course  she  had  her 
enemies,  and  things  was  said  agin  her; 
that  was  nat'ral.  '  Blessed  are  them  that 
are  persecuted,'  you  know.  In  fact,  I 
don't  think  she  was  a  gen'ral  fav'rite  in 
Sugar  Hill.  The  nat'ral  heart,  you  see, 
and  original  sin  accounted  for  that.  She 
was  a  standin'  reproof  to  all  sinners,  and 


there  was  a  good  many  there,  like  there 
is  in  most  places,  and  folks  don't  set  much 
by  standin'  reproofs.  And  the  children 
didn't  like  her,  neither,  and  that  was  nat'- 
ral,  too.  Children,  unregen'rate  ones,  nev 
er  do  like  the  things  they'd  ought  to  like. 
And  to  hear  her  talk  to  'em  of  their  prob- 
'ble  futur',  and  the  dreadful  outcome  of 
their  doin's  and  not  doin's,  why,  it  kind 
of  made  'em  uncomfortable.  And  I  don't 
think  she  liked  'em  much,  neither.  It 
pestered  and  worried  her  to  see  'em  goin' 
on  in  their  sinful  ways,  and  her  not  able  to 
convince  or  convert.  But  if  sinners  didn't 
think  much  of  her,  Christians  did.  All 
the  best  and  piousest  of  the  church  mem 
bers  set  store  by  her,  and  admired  to  see 
her  grace  and  goodness.  Elder  Welcome 
was  settled  here  then,  and  he  was  a  holy, 
blessed  man,  if  there  ever  was  one.  Dear, 
dear,  dear  !  when  I  see  the  ministers  now 
adays,  and  then  think  of  him !  Talk  of 
the  Pope  o'  Rome,  and  how  he  has  it  all 


his  own  way  in  his  d'nomination,  why,  I 
don't  believe  he's  one-half  so  set  as  Elder 
Welcome  was,  and  I'm  certain  sure  folks 
don't  give  in' to  him  so  much.  He  ruled 
Sugar  Hill  with  a  high  hand,  and  a  good 
thing  'twas  for  us.  And  oh,  such  preach- 
in'!  None  of  the  frivolous  sort  of  dis 
courses  they  call  sermons  in  these  days, 
with  stories  and  describin's  and  conver 
sations  and  all  that  throwed  in  to  make 
'em  what  they  call  interestin'.  Interest- 
in'  !  We  don't  go  to  meetin'  to  be  inter 
ested  ;  that's  what  I  hold.  If  we  want  to 
be  interested,  we  can  go  to  town  meetin' 
or  vendues  or  closin'  exercises  at  the 
school.  He  give  us  every  week,  at  least, 
two  good  long  discourses  on  the  doc 
trines  and  beliefs  of  our  d'nomination, 
and  he  had  'em  all  himself  at  his  tongue's 
end,  's  they  say.  Free-will  and  foreordi- 
nation  and  effectual  callin',  perseverance 
of  the  saints,  the  futur'  state  of  unbap- 
tized  infants,  and,  above  all,  the  natur' 


i6 

and  duration  of  eternal  punishment,  he'd 
give  'em  to  us  week  after  week,  often  an 
hour  and  forty  minutes  at  a  talk,  and 
they'd  run  off  his  tongue  lik'e  ile.  *  I  nev 
er  knew  a  man  so  grounded  in  all  them 
things  as  he  was.  Twas  the  thing  that 
allers  struck  folks  most,  after  settin'  un 
der  his  preachin'  a  spell,  how  grounded 
he  was  in  all  the  doctrines.  When  he 
died — a  good  many  years  ago  'tis  now — 
if  I'd  a  had  my  way,  that's  what  they'd  a 
put  on  his  moniment,  just  that  one  word, 
'  Grounded.' 

"  Well,  the  elder  he  thought  a  heap  of 
Mehetabel,  and  held  her  up  as  an  exam 
ple  and  model  to  the  youth  of  the  village, 
and  he'd  call  on  her  frequent  at  evenin' 
meetin'  to  relate  her  experience  and  say 
a  word  in  season  to  the  light-minded  and 
unconverted.  I  can  see  her  now,  stand  in' 
up  in  her  pew,  so  straight  and  unbendin', 
with  her  white,  mournful  kind  of  face, 
and  her  black,  scary  lookin'  eyes  full  of 


wholesome  fear  of  the  Lord,  talkin'  of 
her  unworthiness,  her  vileness,  the  awful 
things  she  deserved,  and  the  willin'ness 
she  hoped  she  felt  to  bear  'em  for  endless 
ages.  And  she  talked  in  such  a  wailin,' 
doleful  sort  of  voice,  it  made  you  feel 
good  an'  creepy,  like  hearin'  'em  sing 
Windham  or  Chiny.  And  speakin'  of 
singin'  makes  me  think  that  Mehetabel 
used  to  sing  sometimes  when  she  was  all 
by  herself.  She  had  a  good  ear,  and  could 
catch  a  tune  quick ;  and  if  she  hadn't 
known  'twas  a  sinful  waste  of  time,  she 
could  a  gone  ahead  of  most  of  the  young 
folks  in  music  and  all  that.  But  she 
didn't  see  any  harm  in  hymn-singin'  when 
she  was  by  herself;  and  I've  heard  her, 
time  and  time  again,  singin'  low  and  soft 
to  herself  those  good  and  solemn  psalms 
and  hymns  they  don't  use  enough  nowa 
days.  She  knew  all  the  different  parts — 
the  treble  and  counter  and  all  of  what 
they  called,  them  days,  fugein'  tunes.  But 


she  wouldn't  sing  'em  with  other  folks, 
for  fear,  as  she  used  to  say,  'twould  be 
turned  into  a  pleasure.  So  she  took  all 
the  parts  herself.  One  of  her  fav'rites 
was,  '  Thy  wrath  lies  heavy  on  my  soul ;' 
and  when  she'd  come  to  the  third  line — 
you  remember  it,  o'  course — '  While  dust 
and  silence  spread  the  gloom,'  she'd  sing 
the  tenor  part  first,  '  While  dust  and  si 
lence,'  way  up  high ;  then  the  treble, 
'  dust  and  silence ;'  then  the  counter  lower 
down,  'dust  and  silence;'  and  then  all  to 
gether  's  well 's  she  could  do  it, '  sprea-ea- 
ea-ed  the  glo-o-o-m.'  And  when  she  end 
ed  up  on  the  last  line,  '  Descend  around 
me  to  the  tomb,'  her  voice  would  kind  o' 
die  out  like  the  wind  in  the  chimney 
stormy  nights.  Another  one  was,  '  Lord, 
what  a  thoughtless  wretch  was  I !'  to  old 
Greenwich,  you  know.  'Twas  powerful 
wakenin'  to  hear  her  sing  that  about 

" '  On  slipp'ry  rocks  I  see  them  stand, 
And  fiery  billows  roll  below.' 


19 

"  And  another  v/as, 

"'As  on  some  lonely  buildin's  top 
The  sparrer  tells  her  moan,' 

to  the  air  of  '  Mournin  swain  ' — you  rec'- 
lect. 

"I've  stood  outside  her  window  just 
after  dark — that  was  the  time  she  gen'- 
rally  sung — and  listened  by  the  hour  to 
hear  her  sing  the  Judgment  Anthem. 
She'd  go  right  through  the  whole  thing 
— it's  a  dreadful  fugein'  one,  you  know — 
takin'  one  part  after  another,  even  the 
bass,  and  goin'  up  and  down  and  'over  and 
'cross  and  back  and  for'ard  till  it  most 
took  your  breath  away.  You  rec'lect  that 
part  about 

" '  Lively  bright  horror  and  amazin'  anguish 

Stare  through  their  eyelids  while  the  livin'  worm  lies 
Gnawin'  within  them.' 

"  It's  a  splendid  piece,  and  she'd  do  it 
so  's  you  could  most  see  the  whole  thing. 
And  then  often — it's  kind  of  mean  in  me 


to  tell  of  it  now,  as  'twas  to  listen  to  it 
then ;  'twan't  meant  for  me  to  see  and 
hear — she'd  stop,  and  I  could  see  her  by 
her  candle  cover  her  face  up  with  her 
hands,  and  groan  out  in  a  sort  of  solemn 
fear;  and  I'd  sneak  off  through  the  wet 
grass  with  a  kind  of  scary,  pricky,  goose- 
fleshy  feelin'  all  over  me,  partic'lar  under 
my  hair. 

"  Well,  here  I  am  takin'  up  all  this  time 
about  the  Mehetabel  Clark  of  those  days, 
and  'most  forgettin'  the  awful  change  that 
come  afterwards.  But  this  I've  been  tell- 
in'  you  helps  to  make  the  rest  more  strik- 
in'  and  solemn ;  that  is,  if  I've  been  able 
to  make  you  see  her  's  she  was  then,  a  pi 
ous,  serious-minded  young  woman,  with 
every  sign  and  showin'  of  bein'  truly  con 
verted,  and  of  havin'  cast  away  the  works 
o'  darkness  and  put  off  the  old  man  and 
his  deeds ;  one  that  was  weighed  down, 
as  I  never  see  any  one  else  weighed  down, 
with  a  proper  and  realizin'  sense  of  her 


own  unworthiness,  her  guilty  natur',  and 
the  justice  and  jealousy  and  vengeance  of 
the  great  and  awful  God.  I  say  it  again, 
's  I  said  it  afore,  'twas  beautiful,  beautiful. 
There  was  them  —  mostly  rather  luke- 
minded  sort  o'  Christians — that  said  there 
wasn't  love  and  charity  enough  in  her  for 
the  best  kind  of  perfessor,  and  that  she'd 
a  been  more  comfortable  and  not  suffered 
so  much  if  she'd  a  had  more.  That's  all 
foolishness,  for  the  Bible  says,  you  know, 
that  even  charity  itself  '  suffereth  long,' 
and  if  she'd  been  chock-full  of  love  and 
charity  she'd  a  suffered  just  as  much  from 
knowing  her  own  sin  and  wickedness. 
Old  Mis'  Wells — she  was  one  of  your  soft 
ly,  pleasant,  at-ease-in-Zion  kind  of  folks 
that  never  worried  about  her  own  soul 
nor  anybody's  else's — she  says  to  Mehet- 
abel  one  time,  says  she,  '  Couldn't  you 
jest  try  and  love  Him  a  little  more,  's 
well  as  fear  him  ?'  And  Mehetabel  she 
looked  at  her  with  her  big  black  eyes, 


and  she  says  in  her  mournful  voice,  '  I 
ain't  worthy  yet  to  lift  up  my  eyes  to 
Him,  much  more  to  darest  to  love  Him, 
me,  the  vilest  thing  He's  made.  I  have 
give  myself  to  Him  body  and  soul,  and 
he  has  accepted  the  worthless  sacrifice. 
He  has  taken  me  out  o'  the  horrible  pit 
and  out  o'  the  miry  clay,  and  there  is 
none,'  she  says,  loud  and  sharp,  '  that 
can  pluck  me  out  of  His  hand.  But  He 
himself,'  says  she,  '  can  cast  me  into  out 
er  darkness,  He  can  break  me  to  pieces 
like  a  potter's  vessel.' 

"And  so  'twas  about  the  Scripters. 
She  read  them  from  mornin'  till  night, 
but  'twas  most  allers  the  Old  Testament : 
the  prophets,  and  so  on.  And  when  some 
carpin'  and  fault-findin'  church  member 
dealt  with  her  about  that,  and  argued 
that  there  was  another  part  of  the  Bible 
that  was  pretty  important  and  val'able 
to  Christians  o'  the  real  sort,  Mehetabel 
says, '  Tain't  that  I  don't  want  to  dwell 


23 

on  that  part,  nor  that  I  ain't  a  longin'  for 
the  time  when  I  can  begin  to  look  at 
that  side  o'  the  subjeck.  But  now,  now, 
'tain't  for  me.  'Twould  make  me  too 
comfortable,  and  I'd  forget  my  own  sin 
ful,  wretched  state.  I'm  glad  there's 
them,'  she  says, '  that  can  read  it  and  feel 
free  to  rejoice  in  its  good  tidin's,  but  'tain't 
for  me  yet,  'tain't  for  me.' 

"  There,  I  guess  you  understand  that 
part  now,  and  you  won't  wonder  at  our 
all  thinkin'  that  Mehetabel  Clark  was  one 
o'  them  —  as  the  catechism  says  — '  from 
all  eternity  elected  to  everlastin'  life  ;'  and 
believin'  as  we,  most  of  us,  did  in  the  per- 
serverance  o'  saints  you'll  see  how  unpre 
pared  we  was  for  what  come  after. 

"  Well,  Mehetabel  was  took  sick,  dread 
ful  sick.  That  was  after  her  father  'n 
mother  'd  been  dead  some  time,  and  she 
was  livin'  with  Nathan,  her  married  broth 
er.  I  don't  know  what  the  matter  was 
with  her  exactly— a  fever,  I  guess,  at  the 


24 

start;  but  she  got  worse  and  worse  till 
every  one  see  she  was  dangerous.  They 
had  old  Dr.  Thayer  attendin'  her  reg'lar, 
but  after  a  spell  they  called  in  Dr.  Morse 
from  Littleton,  and  then  they  had  in  some 
one  from  Haverhill,  but  none  of  'em  did 
a  mite  of  good.  She  had  her  mind  all 
through,  and  she  was  in  the  most  proper 
and  Christian  state,  prayin'  out  loud  for 
mercy,  bemournin'  and  bewailin'  her  sins, 
and  tellin'  all  around  her  what  a  fearful 
thing  'twas  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
livin'  God. 

"  But  one  night  when  I  stopped,  as  I  was 
drivin'  home  the  cows,  to  ask  about  Me- 
hetabel,  they  told  me  she'd  sank  into  a 
kind  of  stupid,  and  the  doctors  thought 
she  wouldn't  ever  come  out  of  it.  They 
scursely  thought  she'd  hold  out  till  morn- 
in',  but  she  did,  and  when  I  come  home 
from  the  field,  next  afternoon,  my  folks 
told  me  she  was  still  livin'.  And  she  laid 
there  day  after  day  for  nigh  on  a  week, 


25 

just  that  way  as  if  she  was  dead,  only  she 
breathed.  Nobody  thought  she'd  ever 
rouse  up,  and  it  most  seemed  a  pity  she 
should.  For  while  she  laid  there,  so  ter 
rible  still  and  dead-lookin',  somehow  she 
had  a  peacefuller,  more  comfortable  look 
on  her  face  than  she'd  ever  had  afore  since 
she  was  a  baby.  I  see  her  myself  two  or 
three  times.  Nothin'  never  disturbed 
her,  so  they  let  folks  in  's  much  as  they 
pleased,  and  everybody  wanted  to  see  her 
once  more. 

"  She  didn't  look  like  Mehetabel  some 
ways.  That  scary,  solemn,  anxious  face 
went  away,  and,  after  a  spell,  she  had  a 
sort  o'  restin',  satisfied,  peaceable  look  on 
her  featiir's  that  we  wasn't  used  to.  And 
one  after  'nother  of  us  would  turn  away, 
our  eyes  pretty  wet  and  our  throats  choky, 
and  whisper  's  we  tiptoed  out  of  the  bed 
room,  '  Well,  she's  most  there,  and  she 
looks  it,  every  bit.'  Dear  me,  dear  me! 
If  she'd  only  died  then  we'd  a  been  's  cer- 


26 

tain  sure  of  her  destination  's  of  Paul's 
himself.  But  she  didn't  die.  The  doc 
tors  was  wrong  that  time,  and  when  her 
shroud  was  bein'  made,  and  all  the  prepa 
rations  for  her  funeral  goin'  on,  one  day, 
just  about  sunset,  somebody  happened  to 
look  at  her,  and  they  see  her  eyes  was 
open,  and  there  was  sense  in  'em. 

"  They  sent  in  a  jiffy  for  Dr.  Thayer, 
and  he  come  and  looked  her  over,  felt  her 
pulse,  and  all  that,  and  said  she  seemed 
to  be  stronger,  she  hadn't  any  fever,  and 
he  guessed  there  was  some  chance  for 
her.  They  begun  to  feed  her  up  and 
nourish  her,  and  she  gained  and  gained 
till  there  wa'n't  any  doubt  of  it— she  was 
goin' to  be  spared  to  us.  Well,  we  couldn't 
help  bein'  dreadful  glad,  even  though  'twas 
keepin'  her  out  of  heaven  a  spell  longer, 
as  it  seemed  to  us  then.  And  you  see  we 
didn't  at  first,  nor  for  quite  a  spell,  find 
out  about  the  awful  thing  that  had  hap 
pened  to  her,  and  the  dreadful  change 


that  had  come  over  her  soul ;  for  at  first 
she  didn't  talk  any.  She  seemed  sensi 
ble  and  appeared  to  know  folks,  took  her 
victuals  and  her  physic  when  they  brought 
'em  to  her,  but  she  never  said  a  word ; 
and  all  the  time  she  kep'  on  wearin'  that 
peaceable,  satisfied,  restin'  look  in  her 
featur's  that  she'd  had  when  she  laid 
there  so  long — the  look  that  was  so  dif 
ferent  somehow  from  the  Mehetabel  Clark 
o'  the  old  times.  Now  I  can  see,  know- 
in'  what  come  after,  that  that  very  thing 
ought  to  made  us  suspect  something  was 
wrong,  but — well,  it  didn't,  anyway.  We'd 
ought  to  have  knowed  'twas  a  bad  sign 
for  one  that  had  allers  had  the  fear  of  the 
Lord  before  'em,  and  a  realizin'  sense  of 
the  awful  value  of  life,  to  lose  it  all  to 
once,  and  put  on  that  comfortable,  easy 
sort  o'  look  ;  it  seemed  like  false  s'curity, 
like  Mr.  Vain  Confidence  in  Pilgrims 
Progress,  you  know.  But  we  didn't 
any  of  us  think  o'  that  at  first,  we  was 


so  glad  to  see  her  out  of  pain  and  suf- 
ferin'. 

"  I  disremember  now  just  how  long 
'twas  afore  we  found  out.  When  she  be 
gun  to  talk  a  little  'twas  only  about  her 
victuals  or  drinks  or  openin'  the  window 
or  shuttin'  the  door  or  something,  and 
we  all  see  her  head  was  straight  and  her 
senses  all  there.  They  kept  her  's  quiet 
's  they  could  for  a  long  spell.  But  one 
day — I  wasn't  there  myself,  but  I've  heard 
tell  of  it  so  many  times  seems  's  if  I  was 
— one  day  her  sister-in-law,  thinkin'  'twas 
time  she  was  roused  up  to  her  Christian 
duties  again,  says  to  her,  '  Mehetabel, 
have  you  offered  thanks  to  God  for  your 
wonderful  raisin'  up  's  from  the  grave?' 

"  Mehetabel  looked  up  at  her,  just  as 
calm  as  ever,  only  a  little  mite  puzzled 
like,  and  she  says, '  How,  Jane  ?* 

"  Mis'  Clark  said  it  over,  plain  and  loud 
er,  thinkin'  the  sickness  might  a  made  her 
a  little  hard  of  hearin'.  And  Mehetabel 


she  looked  her  right  in  the  face,  calm  and 
sensible  's  ever,  and  she  says,  '  I  don't 
seem  to  know  what  you  mean,  Jane; 
who'd  you  say  ?' 

"Well, well, Mis'  Clark  often  said  after 
that  you  could  have  knocked  her  down 
with  a  feather,  she  was  so  took  aback  and 
upset.  But  still  she  sort  of  hoped  'twas 
just  because  Mehetabel's  mind  wasn't 
quite  clear  yet,  and  that  she'd  come  out 
all  straight  after  a  spell.  But  she  didn't ! 
That's  what  I've  been  comin'  at  with  all 
this  long  story,  and  I  suppose  you  see 
'twas  comin'.  But  it's  just  as  hard  for 
me  to  tell  you,  now  I've  reached  the 
p'int,  as  if  I  hadn't  led  up  to  it.  But 
'twas  so,  and  we  all  had  to  face  it :  her 
own  folks,  the  minister,  the  church  and 
society  and  her  neighbors.  She'd  lost 
her  religion,  put  her  hand  to  the  plough 
and  turned  back,  become  a  backslider,  a 
castaway;  and,  what's  more,  the  dreadful 
and  mysterious  part  of  it  was,  she'd  act'- 


3° 

ally  lost  her  belief  in  there  bein'  any  God 
at  all.  She  wouldn't  hear  of  Him.  She 
throwed  away  His  holy  word,  she  gave 
up  prayer,  abandoned  the  sanctuary,  she 
— yes,  there's  no  denyin'  the  terrible  fact 
— she'd  become  what  I  begun  by  callin' 
her  to  you  at  the  start,  a  heretic ! 

"  She  growed  stronger,  and  at  last  got 
all  well  in  body  and  mind,  but  her  soul 
had  got  some  dreadful  hurt  and  it  never 
healed  over.  Somehow  in  that  sickness 
of  hers  she'd  fell  into  the  tempter's  pow 
er,  and  yielded  to  him ;  she'd  forbore  to 
resist  the  devil  and  he  hadn't  fleed  from 
her.  Of  course  everything  was  done  that 
could  be.  Elder  Welcome  labored  with 
her  for  days  and  weeks  and  months  ;  her 
own  folks,  the  neighbors  and  friends 
and  the  church,  all  prayed  and  argufied, 
threatened  and  coaxed.  They  held  spe 
cial  meetin's,  had  a  day  of  prayer  for  her 
conversion  ;  they  sent  for  Mr.  Martin,  the 
great  revivalist  from  Vermont,  but  it  was 


3' 

labor  throwed  away.  After  all  their  talk- 
in',  and  preachin',  and  prayin',  she  was 
still  the  same  unbelievin'  sinner,  without 
hope,  and  without  God  in  the  world. 

"  No,  mebbe  it  wa'n't  that  just  exactly 
— that  is,  the  first  part  of  it.  She  was 
without  God,  poor,  deluded  creatur';  but 
as  for  hope,  why,  she'd  got  a  queer,  crazy 
kind  of  one  that  nobody  understood  or 
wanted  to.  There's  no  good  in  tryin' 
to  tell  about  that ;  you  couldn't  make 
anything  out  of  it,  any  more  than  we 
could,  and  it's  neither  here  nor  there. 
It's  nothin'  to  do  with  the  main  p'int  of 
the  story ;  that  is,  the  fact  that  she  that 
had  been  a  pillar  of  the  church,  a  bright 
and  shinin'  light,  a  city  that  was  set  on  a 
hill  that  couldn't  be  hid,  she  had  become 
like  the  beast  that  perisheth,  the  fool  that 
said  in  his  heart  there  is  no  God.  'Twant 
anything  but  a  kind  of  an  idee,  or  a  made- 
up  story,  I  never  could  exac'ly  make  up 
my  mind  which.  Sometimes  I'd  think 


'twas  the  first,  and  that  she  really  believed 
it,  but  then  I  see  that  couldn't  be.  She 
wasn't  crazy ;  we  all  knew  that.  She  was 
every  bit  as  sensible,  industrious  a  mem 
ber  of  the  c'mmunity  as  anybody  there ; 
did  her  house- work,  her  gard'nin',  her 
knittin'  and  sewin'  and  mendin'  as  well 
's  she'd  ever  done  'em,  and  mebbe  a  mite 
better.  She  was  as  clear-headed  and 
stiddy-goin'  as  she'd  ever  been,  and  ev 
ery  one  of  us  see  and  knew  it.  So  when 
she'd  start  off  on  this  queer,  ramblin' 
story  of  hers,  without  a  fact  in  it  as  far 
as  we  could  see,  why,  how  could  we  help 
thinkin'  that  she'd  made  it  all  up  delib'- 
rate,  to  sort  of  smooth  over  her  awful 
unbelief,  or  divert  folks's  minds  from  it? 
"  This  is  all  'twas.  She  declared  she'd 
been  off  somewheres — just  where  or  when 
she  never'd  exactly  tell;  but  it  seemed  to 
be  quite  a  ways.  From  her  talk  it  seemed 
to  be  out  o'  the  United  States,  'cross  the 
water  somewheres.  But,  dear  me,  how'd 


33 

she  expect  us  to  credit  a  thing  like  that  ? 
She  never  in  all  her  born  days  had  been 
farther  away  than  Concord,  and  that  was 
when  she  was  only  six  year  old,  so  't 
didn't  make  a  lastin'  impression.  But 
nothin'  she  talked  about  in  speakin'  of 
that  deestrict  was  anything  like  what 
went  on  in  this  country  of  ours.  But 
'twas  a  free  country ;  we  gathered  that 
from  what  she  let  fall ;  for  she  didn't 
ever  talk  right  out  about  it.  I  don't 
know  's  she  ever  really  said  in  so  many 
words  she'd  been  away  to  a  foreign  land, 
and  seen  this  or  that.  But  she  talked 
about  a  strange,  outlandish  country,  what 
she'd  seen  and  what  folks  done  there,  and 
how  she  lotted  on  goin'  back  before  long; 
and,  above  all — and  that's  how  we  come 
to  think  'twas  a  free  country — about  the 
President  and  his  son.  My,  my !  how  it 
does  bring  back  Mehetabel  just  to  say 
that!  Why,  I'm  most  ashamed  to  tell 
you  that  when  I  hear  the  President  talked 


34 

of  I  never  think  first  of  him  that's  our 
lawful  ruler  at  Washington,  or  even  of 
them  that  used  to  be  there  —  Andrew 
Jackson  or  General  Taylor  and  them. 
But  I  think  o'  Mehetabel  Clark's  Presi 
dent,  one  she  made  up  out  of  her  own 
head,  and  that  didn't  or  couldn't,  in  the 
natur'  of  things,  ever  live  anywhere  in 
this  mortal  world.  How  she  ever  made 
up  such  a  person,  what  she  ever  found 
anywheres  to  make  him  out  of,  beats  me. 
It  might  have  come  out  of  some  book  o' 
travels  or  adventur's,  shipwrecks  and  d's- 
asters,  or  castin'  away  on  desert  islands, 
or  somethin'.  But,  then,  she'd  never  read 
any  books,  nothin'  much,  but  her  Bible. 

"  But  she  had  him  complete,  all  out  in 
her  head,  so  that  she  knew  just  what  he'd 
do  or  say  or  command  or  advise  in  any 
kind  o'  circumstances.  And  I  must  say 
'twas  a  takin'  sort  of  character,  and  made 
even  us,  that  disapproved  the  whole 
thing,  and  never  wanted  to  encourage 


35 

her  talkin'  about  it  when  she'd  ought  to 
have  been  thinkin'  of  her  immortal  soul 
and  what  'twas  comin'  to — why,  's  I  said, 
it  would  make  even  us  wish  sometimes 
that  it  was  true,  and  that  there  was  some- 
wheres  such  a  President  and  such  a  coun 
try.  But,  mercy  me  !  to  think  of  livin'  on 
a  fairy-story  like  that,  and  givin'  up  your 
religion  for  it  and  the  fear  of  God.  'Twas 
dreadful !  But  I  haven't  told  you  the  very 
worst  part  of  it ;  that  is,  if  it's  right  to  say 
worst  when  'twas  all  bad  and  there  wasn't 
any  best.  But  someways  what  appeared 
to  make  it  worse  in  one  way,  at  least  most 
dangerous  to  other  folks,  was  that  in  a 
good  many  ways  she  was  better  than  she 
used  to  be ;  at  any  rate,  more  of  a  fav'rite. 
And  she  was  a  heap  happier,  that's  the 
melancholy  truth.  O'  course  some  of  us 
church  members  see  how  that  could  be — 
that  'twas  the  false  peace  o'  the  wicked, 
and  she  was  self-deceived  and  sportin'  on 
the  brink,  as  often  happens.  But  to  the 


36 

outsiders,  seein'  her  allers  calm  and  peace 
ful  lookin'  now,  without  that  worried  look 
she  used  to  have,  and  seein'  her,  too,  so 
good  and  pityin'  to  folks  in  trouble,  and 
so  takin'  with  the  children  and  youth,  and 
her  a  heretic,  'twas  terrible  dangerous. 

"  Why,  in  all  her  talks  with  the  young 
folks  in  them  days  I  don't  believe  she 
ever  used  the  name  of  the  God  she  used 
to  fear  and  worship,  nor  quoted  the  pas 
sages  of  Scriptur'  she  used  to  have  at  her 
tongue's  end.  But  it's  only  fair  to  say 
that  her  conversation,  puttin'  aside  that 
awful  leave-out,  was  good  and  improvin', 
and  the  advice  and  suggestions  and  teach- 
in's  she  give  'em,  took,'  s  she  said,  from 
the  President  or  his  son,  couldn't  be  bet 
tered.  '  The  President  says' —  I  can  hear 
her  sayin'  that  now,  in  a  kind  of  softly 
way  she  had  whenever  she  referred  to 
him,  for  she  appeared  to  have  the  great 
est  respect  for  him  and  what  he  said  ;  and, 
wherever  she  got  it,  'twas  allers  the  wisest, 


sensiblest,  kindest  talk  she  put  into  his 
mouth,  I  must  say.  And  so  folks  got  to 
goin'  to  her  with  their  worries  and  trou 
bles  and  sorrers  and  puzzlin's,  and  she  al- 
lers  had  somethin'  for  'em  all  that  the 
President  said,  and  that  seemed  to  be 
just  the  thing  for  each  partic'lar  case. 

"  Where  in  the  universe  did  she  get 
some  of  those  sayin's  ?  She  never'd  been 
so  dreadful  smart,  or  took  to  eddication 
anyway,  and  as  for  books,  as  I've  said  be 
fore,  she'd  never  read  any  but  the  Script- 
ur's,  and  mebbe,  for  a  change,  once  in  a 
good  while,  the  Pilgrim 's  Progress.  So 
her  makin'  up  of  all  these  things,  which 
come  in  so  pat  and  appropri'te  every 
time,  did  seem  mortal  sing'lar,  and  some 
folks  held  that  she  couldn't  a  done  it 
alone,  and  must  have  had  somebody  to 
help  her.  But  brother  Wilcox — he  was 
the  elder's  great  stand-by  —  said  if  she 
needed  help,  and  he  didn't  think  she  did, 
for,  says  he,  it's  man's  heart,  and  worn- 


an's  too,  for  that  matter,  that  Scriptur' 
says  deviseth  mischief  continually,  seeks 
out  many  inventions  and  devises  wicked 
imaginations  ;  but  if  she  did  need  a  help 
er  she'd  have  found  one,  ready  and  willin' 
enough ;  that  old  serpent  which  is  the  dev 
il  and  Satan  ;  Scriptur'  again.  And  as  for 
it's  all  bein'  good  and  moral  what  she 
made  up,  he  went  on,  why,  that  difficulty's 
got  over  by  knowin'  that  the  tempter  can 
take  on  the  featur's  of  an  angel, -and  that 
he  sometimes,  as  we've  warrant  for  sayin', 
will  even  quote  Scriptur'  itself.  Brother 
Wilcox  was  allers  hard  on  Mehetabel. 

"  I  ain't  givin'  you  yet  much  notion  of 
what  her  idees  was,  am  I  ?  But  you  see 
it's  so  hard  to  tell  just  what  she  meant 
I  only  know  that  she  somehow  or  other 
give  us  the  idee  that  this  President  was 
perfectly  just  everyway ;  that  he  had  strict 
laws,  but  never  made  any  that  couldn't 
be  kep'  somehow;  that  he  had  onlimited 
pardonin'  power,  and,  bein'  very  forgivin' 


39 

in  his  natur',  he  was  allers  exercisin'  it. 
But  though  she  owned  up  that  there  was 
ha'sh  laws  there,  and  folks  had  got  to  keep 
'em  or  take  the  consequences,  she  never 
seemed  to  like  to  dwell  on  that  part. 
She'd  talk  and  talk  by  the  hour  about  the 
President  bein'  so  good  to  the  people,  set- 
tin'  by  'em  and  helpin*  'em  and  forgivin' 
'em.  Why,  from  her  talk  you'd  think  there 
was  more  forgivin'  and  overlookin'  and 
passin'  over  things  than  anything  else; 
and  while  she  was  goin'  over  and  over 
that  part  you'd  forget  the  laws  and  the 
punishin's  and  the  strictness  and  all  that, 
and  just  look  at  her  fav'rite  side  of  the 
President — an  awful  lax  one.  But  she 
made  it  out  all  right,  and  you  couldn't 
help  thinkin'  while  she  talked  that  you 
understood  it  all  and  that  it  could  be 
somehow.  I  said  she  didn't  talk  out  the 
whole  thing  in  plain  words,  but  let  you 
know  it  somehow  from  kind  of  hints  and 
allusions  and  so  on.  That  was  with  grown 


4° 

folks,  and  they  never  liked  to  ask  her 
questions  right  out.  But  'twas  different 
with  children.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  how 
'twas  that  people  let  their  children  be 
with  such  a  dangerous  character  at  all. 
Well,  at  first  they  didn't,  or  they  tried 
not  to.  But  the  young  ones  was  crazy  to 
be  with  her,  and  they'd  slip  off  and  go, 
and  bimeby  their  mas  found  that  instead 
o'  doin'  'em  any  harm,  she  seemed  to 
make  'em  better,  as  fur  as  this  world  was 
concerned  :  more  obedient  and  biddable, 
and  peaceable  among  themselves.  And 
the  boys  and  gals  did  like  so  to  go  with 
her,  and  they'd  be  took  care  of  and  out 
o'  mischief  a  whole  afternoon  if  they  was 
with  her;  so  folks  give  in  and  let  'em 
go. 

"And  they'd  ask  questions  —  children 
will,  you  know.  My  Marietty,  she  was 
there  a  good  deal,  and  she  used  to  tell  me 
and  ma  about  it,  and  for  the  life  of  us  we 
couldn't  help  likin'  to  hear;  'twas  just  a 


most  interestin'  fairy  story.  '  Did  you 
ever  see  the  President  yourself?'  they'd 
say,  after  she'd  been  a  talkin'  about  him 
a  spell ;  and  she'd  answer,  sort  o'  hesitatin' 
and  slow,  but  in  that  same  softly  way  she 
always  spoke  about  him, '  I  think  I  did, 
once,'  she  says ;  '  but  whether  I  was  in  my 
body  or  out  o'  my  body  I  ain't  certain 
sure,  but  —  the  President  knows.'  She 
says, '  I  'peared  to  be  ketched  up  and  took 
way  up,  up  high  to  the  very  top  floor.  I 
think  his  son  let  me  in,  and  then — I — 
well,  seems  's  if  I  see  him.  But  'twas 
more'n  fourteen  year  ago,'  she  says,  's  if 
she  was  thinkin'  and  tryin'  to  rec'lect, '  and 
I  disremember  just  how  it  was.  Mebbe 
I  was  in  my  own  body,  mebbe  I  was  out 
o'  my  own  body,  I  ain't  certain  sure,  but — 
the  President  knows.' 

"  '  The  top  floor  o'  what  ?'  some  little 
fellar  'd  say,  wantin'  to  know  the  whole 
thing,  as  children  will. 

"  '  Why,  the  White  House,'  says  she. 


42 

" '  Do  they  have  a  White  House  there, 
too  ?'  the  children  says. 

"  '  Course  they  do,'  says  Mehetabel ; 
'  and,  oh,  it's  so  white — whiter  than  the 
shiniest  snow,'  she  says. 

"  '  And  what  did  the  President  look 
like  ?'  one  of  'em  inquires  again,  and  she 
answers, '  Seems  's  if  I  didn't  see  his  face 
plain.  If  I  rec'lect  right,  'twas  again'  the 
law;  but  't  any  rate  nobody  could  look 
him  straight  in  the  face  and  stand  it, 
made  'em  so  ashamed.  But  he  passed  by 
in  all  his  strength  and  greatness  and 
goodness  and  pleasantness,  and  I  just  hid 
away  behind  somethin",  and  didn't  peek 
out  till  he'd  got  way  by.  But  I  see  him 
in  the  distance,  goin'  from  me,'  she  says, 
solemn  and  yet  smily, '  and  I  sha'n't  nev 
er,  never  forget  it.  And  when  I  come 
away  after  that  visit,  why,  they  said  my 
featur's  was  all  shiny,  and  they  was  'most 
afraid  of  me;  but  I  never  mistrusted  that 
myself.till  they  told  me  a  spell  arterwards.' 


43 

" '  And  didn't  the  President  say  noth- 
in'  to  you  ?'  they  says. 

" '  Oh  yes,'  she  answers,  'most  in  a  whis 
per,  'but  I  couldn't  put  that  into  talk, 
and  if  I  could  you  wouldn't  understand. 
But,  oh  yes,  he  spoke  to  me  that  time, 
and  lots  of  times  arterwards,  and  his  voice 
sounded  like  the  noise  the  wild  Amonoo- 
suc  and  Gale  River  and  Salmon  Hole 
Brook  and  Swift  Water  makes,  all  goin' 
at  once  ;  loud,  you  know,  and  rushin'  and 
ringin'  and  clear.  And  again  'twas  like  a 
big  wind  in  the  pine-trees  over  there  in 
the  grove,  and  sometimes  it  sounded  like 
a  trumpet  blowin'.  Another  time  when 
he  was  speakin'  folks  would  think  it 
thundered,  the  voice  would  sound  so 
strong  and  powerful,  an5  shake  'em  so. 
But,  then,  more  times,  as  it  seems  to  me 
when  I  think  it  over,  'twas  just  a  low, 
small,  little  voice  that  even  the  children 
could  listen  to  and  like  to  hear.' 

" '  Wasn't  the  children  afraid  of  him, 


44 

Aunt  P'niel  ?'  they'd  say.  There  !  that 
makes  me  think  that  I've  left  out  some- 
thin'.  Why,  she  was  that  unwillin'  to  re 
member  the  days  when  she  was  a  trem- 
blin',  fearful  believer  that  she'd  even  gone 
and  changed  her  name.  Her  story  was 
that  the  President  done  it ;  said  'twas  the 
custom  there  to  give  'em  new  names,  and 
hers,  for  all  the  world,  was  Peniel.  Cu- 
r'us  name  that  was ;  it's  in  the  Bible. 
But  she  allers  called  herself  that,  and 
some  folks  humored  her  by  usin'  it.  I 
never  did,  and  Elder  Welcome  didn't. 
No  more  did  the  best  church  members. 
But  the  children  took  it  up,  as  young 
ones  will  take  up  anything  new,  and  so 
she  was  '  Aunt  P'niel '  to  them  forever 
after.  And  so,  'Wasn't  the  children 
afraid  of  him,  Aunt  P'niel  ?'  says  they. 

"  '  Afraid  o'  the  President !'  says  she, 
'most  laughin', '  the  idee  !  Is  Joey  Barnes 
afraid  of  his  pa,  or  Mary  Jane  Frink  scaret 
of  her  mother?'  They  was  both  only 


45 

children,  you  see,  and  their  folks  set 
dreadful  store  by  'em.  '  Why,'  she  says, 
'  it  growed  to  be  a  sayin'  all  through  that 
country,  in  speakin'  o'  the  President,  that 
he  felt  for  his  people  just  as  a  father 
would  feel  to  pity  his  boys  and  gals.  And 
there  was  another  proverb,  somethin' 
about  his  comfortin'  folks  as  your  moth 
ers  does  you  young  ones  when  you're  out 
o'  sorts  and  fretty.  And  they  had  all 
sorts  o'  names  for  him,  his  people  had, 
that  showed  pretty  plain  how  they  felt 
about  him.  I  know  one  told  about  his 
bein'  like  a  man  that  kep'  sheep  and 
lambs,  that  pastur'd  'em  in  the  grassiest 
medders,  and  took  'em  out  along  the 
brook  to  drink,  and  if  the  littlest  lambs  got 
tired  he'd  jest  carry  'em  and  cosset  'em. 
And  somebody  else  said  he  allers  made 
him  think  of  a  great  big  bowlder  that 
'twas  so  nice  to  see  on  a  hot,  burn  in'  day, 
for  it  throwed  such  a  big  shadder,  and 
cooled  off  and  rested  ye,  when  ye  set 


down  under  it.  Says  another,  "  Yes,  he 
is  like  a  shadder,  as  far  as  coolin'  and 
shadin'  and  restin'  ye  goes,  but  he  allers 
strikes  me,"  he  says,  "as  bein',  on  the 
whole,  more  like  the  sun,  so  cheerin'  and 
bright  and  shinin',  and  keepin'  away  the 
dark  and  scariness  and  worry  from  his 
people."  And  some  held  he  was  like  a 
river,  refreshin'  the  land,  ye  know ;  and 
some  that  he  made  'em  think  of  a  spring 
o'  nice,  cold,  clear  water  when  ye  was 
thirsty,  and  —  oh,  there  ain't  any  name 
too  good  for  them  folks  to  call  the  Pres 
ident  by,  they  was  that  fond  of  him,  and 
set  by  him  so.' 

" '  And  what  did  you  think  he  was  like, 
Aunt  P'niel?'  they'd  ask  her. 

" '  Well,  deary,'  she'd  say,  '  he  'peared 
to  me  like  all  of  them  things  at  one  time 
or  'nother,  'cordin'  as  you  felt  to  want 
this  or  that  in  him.  But  somehow  I  most 
gen'rally  held  to  the  the'ry  o'  his  fav'rin' 
the  sun.  For  ye  see  we'd  had  a  dreffle 


47 

dark  spell  o'  weather  here  afore  I  went 
there,  and  there  wa'n't  much  difference 
'twixt  day  and  night  for  the  longest  time, 
and  I'd  got  so  sick  and  tired  of  it  all, 
never  seein'  anything  plain,  and  gettin' 
scaret  at  things  I  thought  I  see  and 
heerd,  that  when  I  come  there  to  the 
President's  country — it's  a  terrible  open, 
light,  sightly  place — why,  I  thought  more 
of  its  bein'  so  sunshiny  and  clear,  and 
having  plenty  o'  light  to  see  by,  than  I 
done  o'  anything  else.  So  I  liked  to 
think  of  him  as  bein'  like  the  sun,  settin' 
the  most  store  's  I  done  by  that.' 

"And  so  she'd  go  on  and  on  by  the 
hour,  and  the  children  drinkin'  it  all  in 
like  law  and  gospel.  And  'twas,  as  I  said 
afore,  mortal  takin'.  I  didn't  know  I 
could  rec'lect  so  much  of  it,  but  it  all 
comes  back,  as  I  tell  it,  like  a  real  thing 
I  seen  somewhere  myself,  instead  of  just 
a  made-up  yarn  told  by  a  unbeliever. 

"  Now   I  know  what  you're  thinkin'. 


48 

Several  people  have  said  it,  and  I  ain't 
such  a  fool  as  not  to  see  it  myself,  that 
there's  some  kind  of  a  likeness  'twixt 
things  she  said  and  parts  o'  Scriptur'. 
That  about  the  keepin'  sheep,  and  so  on, 
is  something  like  the  Psalms,  you  see. 
Well,  of  course  it  was  nat'ral  for  one 
brought  up  as  she  was,  from  her  youth, 
like  Timothy  was  by  his  grandmother 
Lois  and  his  mother  Eunice,  to  search  the 
Scriptur's ;  of  course,  I  say,  she  couldn't 
help  fallin'  by  spells  into  Bible  language. 
But  'twas  a  mixed  kind  of  Scriptur',  and 
she  twisted  and  turned  it  out  of  all  like 
ness  to  the  real  thing  to  fit  into  her  story. 
She  knew  what  Scriptur'  was  as  well  as  I 
do.  And  as  for  callin'  a  thing  Scriptur' 
religion  that  hadn't  a  speck  of  anything 
doctrinal  such  as  she  was  raised  on,  and 
that  Elder  Welcome  had  preached  to  her 
from  her  birth  'most,  why,  you  see  your 
selves,  it  ain't  likely.  No,  she  was  like 
them  Paul  speaks  of,  that  havin"  swerved, 


turned  aside  into  vain  janglin' ;  and  vain 
janglin'  'twas,  sure  enough. 

"  I've  left  one  thing  out ;  I  don't  exac'- 
ly  know  how  to  tell  that  part.  But  in  one 
way  'twas  the  most  partic'lar  part  of  her 
story ;  everything  seemed  to  hang  on  it, 
and  yet  she  never  explained  it  right  out. 
'Twas  only  this,  as  she  put  it :  the  Presi 
dent  had  a  son.  There,  that  shows  what 
example  and  habit  can  do  !  You  see  how 
I  dropped  my  voice  and  spoke  solemn 
when  I  said  that.  Well,  Mehetabel  allers 
used  to  do  so.  She  never  said  a  word 
about  that  part  that  her  voice  didn't  get 
low  and  whisp'ry,  as  if  some  one  was 
asleep  or — had  died.  I  never  did  under 
stand  how,  someways,  without  sayin'  any 
thing  really  def 'nite  and  plain,  she  could 
make  everybody,  me  and  all,  feel  that 
there  was  somethin'  so  dreadful  solemn, 
drawin',  and  takin',  and  above  and  over 
all  terrible  important  in  that  fact  about 
the  President's  havin'  a  son.  Twas  the 


So 

only  thing  she  ever  seemed  to  cry  about 
— she  took  life  so  easy  after  her  sickness 
— that  part  about  the  President's  son. 
Her  eyes  would  water  and  her  mouth  get 
trembly,  and  it  seemed  's  if  she  couldn't 
hardly  speak  about  it.  Sometimes,  when 
she'd  say  something  comfortin'  or  helpin' 
to  somebody  that  come  to  her,  as  folks 
got  in  the  way  of  doin'  when  things  went 
wrong,  they'd  ask  her,  '  Are  them  the 
President's  words,  Aunt  P'niel  ?'  And 
she'd  say, '  Yes,  they  be — or  leastways  his 
son's.  And  you  know,'  she  allers  put  on, 
'  that's  just  the  same.  What  the  Presi 
dent's  son  says,  why,  that's  what  the  Pres 
ident  means.  He  allers  told  us,  the  Pres 
ident  did,  to  take  anything  his  son  said  's 
if  he  said  it  himself;  he  was  responsible 
for  it,  every  word,  don't  ye  see  ?'  Folks 
said  it  allers  seemed  to  them  as  if  she  got 
the  two  mixed  up  somehow,  and  didn't 
scursely  know  'em  apart  herself. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  what  you  said  just  now. 


You  quoted  that  verse  about  seein' 
through  a  glass  darkly,  and  I  know  what 
you  mean.  You  think  she'd  got  the  right 
idee,  after  all,  only  a  little  mite  skewed 
and  out  o'  shape  by  the  twist-up  in  her 
head  after  her  sickness.  Folks  has  said 
it  afore.  But  don't  you  see  that's  a  dan- 
g'rous  thing  to  hold  ?  Accordin'  to  that, 
anybody  might  make  up  a  story  o'  their 
own,  if  'twas  only  founded  on  fact  and 
with  a  sort  o'  Scriptur'  flav'rin'  to  it ;  and 
though  every  single  savin'  doctrine  was 
left  out,  you'd  say  'twas  religion,  only 
looked  at  through  dingy,  dull  kind  o' 
glass.  Elder  Welcome  talked  about  that 
a  good  deal  to  such  folks,  and  made  'em 
see  what  things  might  come  to  if  they 
was  too  tol'rent  and  easy-goin'  with 
schism  and  wrong  views  and  all.  So  they 
put  the  thing  down  with  a  high  hand, 
called  it  infidelity  right  out  in  so  many 
words,  just  for  the  good  o'  the  church 
and  community. 


"  But  God  makes  use  of  sing'lar  tools 
sometimes,  and  turns  the  weakest,  mis- 
takenest  things  into  means  o'  grace  and 
glory.  And  so  He  done  in  this  case.  I 
can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  many  times 
He  brought  good  out  o'  evil,  and  made 
the  words  and  doin's  o'  this  poor  be 
nighted  woman  bring  forth  fruit  for  His 
own  vineyard.  As  the  Bible  rightly  says, 
'  The  wrath  o'  man  shall  praise  Him.' 

"  'Twas  dreadful  queer  ;  nobody  seem 
ed  to  take  in  her  story  as  real  true,  or 
subst'ute  it,  as  she  appeared  to  do,  for 
orthodox  religion  and  a  belief  in  the  Al 
mighty.  Not  a  soul  of  'em — except,  per 
haps,  some  of  the  children,  such  as  is  al- 
lers  ready  to  swallow  fairies  and  giants 
and  ghosts — not  a  single  soul  really  be 
lieved  in  her  President  and  his  son,  and 
all  she  told  of  them  and  their  country. 
But  someways,  after  hearing  her  talk,  I 
don't  know  how  it  was,  folks  used  to  find 
somethin'  different  and  somehow  more 


S3 

fillin'  and  satisfyin*  in  their  own  religion, 
as  if  they'd  learnt  somethin'  new  out  of 
this  crazy  story.  I  suppose  God  done  it, 
and  made  'em  see  and  hear  somethin'  dif 
ferent  from  what  she  really  said,  just  as 
in  the  Scriptur's  somewhere  He  made 
folks  think  they  heard  an  army  comin' 
when  there  wasn't  any  sign  o'  one.  And 
so  they  really  sometimes  got  good  out  of 
it.  And  there  was  one  thing :  she  never 
said  one  word  against  anybody  else's  re 
ligious  beliefs,  whatever  they  was,  only 
she  never  appeared  to  take  much  notice 
of  'em,  or  even  rec'lect  she'd  ever  held 
any  of  'em  herself. 

"  My  Marietty — the  little  gal  I  lost,  ye 
know — she  got  into  a  very  low-spirited 
state  once.  There  was  a  revival  here, 
and  she  was  impressed  and  under  pow 
erful  conviction  o'  sin  for  a  long  spell. 
She  was  about  twelve  year  old  and  wasn't 
very  rugged,  and  she  took  everything 
pretty  hard,  and  she  went  about  for  days, 


54 

lookin'  so  white  and  scaret  and  sorrer- 
ful ;  she  couldn't  get  peace  anyhow.  And 
it  seemed  to  make  Mehetabel  feel  dread 
ful.  I  don't  know  why  she  should  a  took 
it  to  heart  so,  but  she  told  Marietty  it 
made  her  think  of  a  gal  she  knew  once 
that  looked  just  that  way  and  felt  just  as 
bad. 

"  '  And  did  she  ever  get  any  peace  ?' 
says  my  poor  little  gal. 

" '  Oh  yes,'  said  Mehetabel. 

"  '  Oh,  please,  how  was  it  ?'  asks  Mari 
etty. 

"  '  Why,  'twas  just  comin'  to  know  the 
President  and  his  son,'  says  Mehetabel, 
'and  gettin'  fond  of  them.' 

" '  Oh  dear !'  the  child  cries  out, '  I  wish 
there  was  really  a  President !  But  there 
ain't,  there  ain't,  Aunt  P'niel,  there's  only 
just  the  great  and  awful  God,  and  I  can't 
get  fond  of  Him ;  I'm  only  scaret  of  Him.' 

"  Mehetabel  looked  so  dreadful  sorry 
and  pitiful,  and  she  put  her  hand  on  Ma- 


S5 

rietty's  arm  and  stroked  it,  and  she  says, 
her  voice  all  shaky, '  You  poor,  dear  little 
creatur',  I  can't  show  you  how  to  get  fond 
of  any  one  you're  so  scaret  of,  but  I  could 
if  he  only  had— a  son  !' 

"  Wa'n't  that  a  sing'lar  coincidence  ? 
It  reminded  that  child  o'  somethin'  she'd 
forgot,  and  God  turned  it  to  His  own 
glory.  And  when  me  and  ma  was  in  our 
room  that  evenin',  about  sundown,  pray- 
in'  God  to  show  the  child  His  awful  pow 
er  and  break  her  heart  o'  stone,  she  come 
in,  her  face  all  smiles  and  peace,  and  we 
see  He'd  done  it. 

"  She  died  less  than  two  year  after  that, 
Marietty  did,  and  we  buried  her  in  the 
little  graveyard  back  there.  I  meant  to 
show  you  the  very  spot,  with  the  cinna 
mon  roses  all  'round  it.  And  we  was  so 
glad,  me  and  ma,  when  that  time  come, 
thinkin'  that  anyway  she  was  all  right,  let 
alone  what  we  down  here  was  feelin',  that 
we  allers  felt  someways  obligated  to  the 


56 

one  that  seemed  to  have  a  hand  in  bring- 
in'  her  into  the  blessed  light.  Though  of 
course  we  held  Mehetabel  Clark  was  only 
the  unknowin'  tool  God  used  to  show  His 
own  power. 

"  It  was  a  good  thing  for  the  poor  creat- 
ur'  that  the  young  ones,  and  weak,  easy- 
goin'  growed  folks  did  take  so  to  her ; 
elseways  she'd  a  been  dreadful  lonesome. 
For  she  was  given  up,  after  a  spell,  by  all 
the  orthodox  people,  even  her  own  rela 
tions.  Of  course,  as  she  didn't  go  to 
meetin',  Sundays,  or  assisted  at  any  o'  the 
stated  means  o"  grace,  it  couldn't  be  ex 
pected  that  the  church  and  society  could 
let  things  go  on  as  if  nothin'  had  hap 
pened.  Elder  Welcome  and  all  of  us  had 
set  so  high  by  Jephunneh  and  Mis'  Clark 
that  there  wasn't  any  public  trial  and  put- 
in'  out.  But  they  just  dropped  her  name 
off  the  roll.  A  committee  waited  on  her 
and  broke  it  to  her  as  mild  as  they  could 
consistent.  But  they  needn't  have  wor- 


57 

ried  about  hurtin'  her  feelin's  overmuch, 
for  she  didn't  appear  to  take  any  interest 
in  the  subjeck.  Just  think  of  that  now ! 
What  an  awful  change  from  the  days 
when,  as  the  good  old  hymn  says,  '  How 
pleased  and  blest  was  she  to  hear  the 
people  cry !'  and  so  on ;  the  time  when 
she  could  say  she  '  had  been  there  and 
still  would  go ;  'twas  like  a  little  heaven 
below  !' 

"  There  was  one  thing,  however,  that 
showed  the  power  of  habit  and  the  good 
of  trainin'  up  a  child  the  way  he  should 
go.  She  did  make  a  kind  of  difference 
still  between  the  Sabbath  and  week-days. 
But  dear  me  !  'twas  a  heathen  sort  of  dif 
ference,  and  nothin'  to  do  with  keepin' 
the  day  holy.  She  didn't  do  any  house 
work  much  that  day ;  she  used  to  put  on 
her  best,  or  anyways  her  cleanest  clothes, 
and — well,  we  never  knew  just  what  she 
did  do.  She  was  up  in  her  room  a  good 
deal,  and  when  the  children  asked  her 


58 

what  she  was  doin'  there,  she  only  said 
she  had  a  great  deal  to  think  about,  things 
the  President  and  his  son  had  mentioned 
to  her,  and  she  was  afraid  she  might  for 
get  'em,  and  unmeanin'  talk  like  that. 
And  when  the  young  ones  asked  her  why 
she  couldn't  think  just  's  well  down  in 
the  settin'-room,  if  they  wouldn't  make  a 
noise  or  talk  to  her,  she  said  no,  she'd 
gathered  from  things  the  President  said 
that  'twas  safer  to  latch  herself  in.  But 
'twasn't  for  much  good,  I'm  afraid,  those 
times  up  there,  not  a  bit  like  the  old 
seasons  of  self-examination,  penitential 
mournin',  and  solemn  fear  she  used  to 
spend.  For  whereas  in  those  past  times 
she'd  come  out  with  her  featur's  all 
drawed,  showin'  what  terrible  dealin's 
she'd  had  with  the  tempter,  she'd  come 
down-stairs  now,  lookin'  so  cheerful  and 
pleased  and  comfortable-like,  you  never'd 
dream  'twas  the  Sabbath  day  from  her 
face  and  general  appearance.  And  she'd 


59 

get  the  children  together  then,  and  tell 
'em  stories,  not  Bible  ones,  but  made-up 
stories,  and  not  even  a  moral  lesson  at  the 
end  to  count'ract  the  pleasure  the  story- 
part  give  'em.  We  never  let  Marietty 
go  on  the  Sabbath  day,  though  she  want 
ed  to,  even  after  she  become  a  perfessor  ; 
and  the  best  brought-up  children  wa'n't 
any  of  'em  allowed.  But  the  lax  folks 
settled  things  somehow  with  their  con 
sciences,  and  shut  their  eyes  to  their 
young  ones'  runnin'  off  there.  So  of 
course  it  come  about  soon  that  those 
children  lost  their  wholesome  fear  and 
dread  of  the  Lord's  solemn  day,  and 
looked  for'ard  to  it  as  they  might  a  done 
to  singin'-school  or  goin'  out  to  take  tea, 
which  was  terrible  demoralizin',  you  see. 
As  far  's  I  know  she  didn't  let  'em  play 
games  or  things  like  that.  The  boys  and 
gals  would  tell  my  Marietty  about  their 
times  there,  and  when  she  was  teasin'  to 
go  she'd  repeat  'em  to  me  and  ma.  She 


6o 

said  Marthy  Welles  was  talkin'  about  it 
one  day,  at  recess,  and  she  said  'twas 
dreadful  interestin'  the  stories  Aunt 
P'niel  told  'em  about  the  President  and 
his  son  and  the  White  House  and  all. 

" '  Why,  them  ain't  Sunday  stories,' 
says  Ansel  Peabody,  Deacon  Veranus 
Peabody's  little  boy, '  and  it's  wicked  to 
have  any  but  Bible  stories  that  day ;  pa 
says  so.' 

" '  I  know  'bout  that,'  says  Marthy, 
lookin'  a  little  mite  ashamed, '  but  if  you 
won't  tell — we  don't  want  Aunt  P'niel  to 
know — but  we  thought  we'd  make  it  so  's 
it  wouldn't  be  wicked  by  just  makin'  be 
lieve  she  was  tellin'  us  about  Heaven ; 
and  so  we  play  she  is,  and  it  'most  seems 
sometimes  's  if  that  was  the  way  'twould 
be  up  there,  and  I  wish  'twas  —  there!' 
She  was  a  spunky  little  piece,  and  didn't 
really  mean  it,  of  course.  Moses  Wel 
come  took  that  up  in  a  jiffy.  He  was 
the  minister's  son,  and  the  only  child  in 


Sugar  Hill  that  hadn't  ever  been  let  go 
to  Mehetabel's  since  her  fall.  And  Mo 
ses  says,  when  he  heard  Marthy  Welles 
say  that  about  Heaven,  'Oh,  Marthy, 
Marthy  !'  pointin'  his  poor  spindlin'  finger 
at  her,  his  peaked  little  white  face  all 
ha'sh-lookin'  from  godly  wrath,  'how 
could  you  play  about  such  a  solemn  lo- 
cal'ty  as  Heaven !  Anyways,  you  must 
see  how  diff'ent  't  is  from  the  place  that 
unbelievin'  woman  tells  about,  where  the 
children  play  in  the  streets  and  sing  and 
ask  the  President  and  his  son  for  every- 
thin'  they  want,  not  the  leastest  speck 
scared  of  'em.  What  you  been  a-listenin' 
to  Sabbath  days  when  my  pa  described 
that  solemn  place,  not  to  know  no  better 
than  that?  There  ain't  no  playin'  or 
talkin'  and  askin'  for  things  up  there,'  he 
says.  '  Folks  jest  set  still  in  rows  forev- 
ernevernever,  'cause  it's  a  never-endin' 
Sabbath,  you  know.  And  as  for  that  she 
said  about  puttin'  his  arms  round  'em 


62 

and  them  a-smilin'  up  to  him,  why,  Mar- 
thy  Welles,  you'd  oughter  know  they 
never  smile  in  Heaven !' 

"  I  tell  you,  'twas  as  good  as  a  whole 
sermon  on  the  occ'pations  and  solemn 
employments  of  that  glorious  abode  to 
hear  that  youthful  Christian.  '  Out  o'  the 
mouths  o'  babes,'  you  know. 

"  I  told  you  that  she  was  given  up  by 
her  relations  as  well  as  by  the  Church. 
Course  I  don't  mean  that  her  brother 
and  his  wife  turned  her  out-doors.  But 
I  guess  they  couldn't  help  lettin'  her  see 
what  a  trouble  'twas  to  have  an  unbe 
liever  and  scoffer  in  their  own  Christian 
household.  So  it  come  about  before  long 
that  Mehetabel  took  that  little  house  I 
showed  you  in  the  village  that's  a  shop 
now,  and  there  she  lived,  all  by  herself  at 
first.  But  she  never  appeared  to  be  lone 
some  much.  The  children  were  in  and 
out  all  the  livin'  day,  and  folks  in  afflic 
tion  or  ailin',  that  wa'ri't  up  to  doin'  their 


63 

every-day  work,  would  drop  in  and  talk 
for  want  of  anythin'  better  to  do.  Then 
she  said,  in  her  crazy  way,  that  she  heard 
frequent  from  the  President  and  his  son, 
though  we  never  knew  of  her  receivin'  a 
letter  from  year's  end  to  year's  end. 

"  She  went  around  a  good  deal.  That 
was  so  queer,  for  before  her  sickness  she 
used  to  be  such  a  stay-in,  except  for  goin' 
to  the  sanctuary.  She  didn't  go  there 
now,  as  I  said,  nor  to  sewin'  society,  or 
female  prayer-meetin',  or  anything  stated 
like  that.  But  she  got  to  be  a  real  gad 
der  's  fur  as  pryin'  into  queer  places.  If 
there  was  an  accident,  folks  hurt  or  crip 
pled,  or  even  a  horse  or  cow  or  dog  or 
cat  with  anything  the  matter,  Mehetabel 
was  sure  to  be  there.  And  as  she  seemed, 
after  all,  to  be  handy  now  in  sickness  and 
such,  why,  folks  would  let  her  stay  round 
and  help. 

"  The  oddest  places  she'd  go  to.  Why, 
when  that  man  I  was  tell  in'  you  about — 


Dexter,  you  know,  that  robbed  the  store 
— was  took  up  and  lodged  over  night  in 
the  lock-up,  or  lobby,  as  we  call  it  round 
here,  what  did  Mehetabel  Clark  do  but 
go  and  see  him.  And  when  somebody 
asked  her  about  it,  she  made  up  some 
story  or  other  about  havin'  been  to  see 
the  President's  son.  And  when  some 
one  taxed  her  right  out  with  havin'  been 
to  peek  in  on  and  pester  that  poor  thief 
Lot  Dexter,  she  owned  up,  but  got  round 
it  by  sayin'  that  'twas  the  same  thing  af 
ter  all  as  if  she'd  been  visitin'  the  Presi 
dent's  son  himself.  And  she'd  make 
that  same  excuse  about  goin'  to  see  sick 
folks,  even  perfect  strangers,  or  talkin'  to 
tramps,  and  takin'  them  into  her  house. 
No  matter  how  barefaced  it  was,  every 
body  seein'  and  knowin'  it,  she'd  allers 
say,  as  calm  and  quiet  's  could  be,  that 
she'd  been  doin'  this  or  that,  whatever  it 
might  be,  to  the  President's  son.  Some 
folks  that  wasn't  perfessors  talked  a  good 


deal  about  the  good  she  done  this  way, 
but  Deacon  Priest  used  to  shake  his  head 
and  say, '  Works,  works.'  He  was  a  mas 
ter-hand  for  poetry,  and  he'd  put  on 

'  The  best  o'  deeds 

Is  nothin'  but  weeds 
Alongside  o'  doctrines,  confessions,  and  creeds.' 

"  Then  she  changed  so  about  wastin' 
her  precious  time,  and  takin'  to  friv'lous 
pursuits.  She  begun  to  take  such  notice 
of  what  folks  call  scenery,  the  mountains 
and  the  streams  and  woodsy  places,  and 
even  the  clouds,  sun-risin's,  and  so  on. 
Why,  of  course  God  made  all  those  things, 
and  they  'd  ought  to  fill  us  with  a  real- 
izin'  sense  of  His  power.  What  is  man? 
and  all  that,  as  the  Bible  says.  But  as 
for  settin'  for  hours  lookin'  at  the  mount 
ains,  when  you've  seen  'em  every  day  of 
your  livin'  life — and  if  there's  a  mortal 
thing  that's  just  the  same  allers  and  nev 
er  alters  any  with  age  or  anythin',  it's 

5 


66 

mountains — why,  it's  well  enough  for  sum 
mer  boarders  off  on  a  vacation  with  noth- 
in'  else  to  do,  but  it's  dreadful  foolish  and 
time-wastin'  for  workin"  folks.  But  Me- 
hetabel,  she'd  go  off  to  some  sightly  spot, 
like  that  place  where  you  stopped  me, 
back  there,  before  we  got  up  to  Sugar 
Hill  Street,  and  there  she'd  stand  or  set, 
and  look  and  look  off  at  the  mountains. 
She  went  alone  a  good  deal,  but  some 
times  she'd  take  the  children. 

"  '  What  makes  you  like  to  look  at  the 
mountains  so  much,  Aunt  P'niel?'  they 
says  sometimes,  and  she'd  smile  and  say, 
'They  make  me  think  o'  the  President's 
land  somehow.' 

"  '  Was  there  mountains  there  ?"  they 
says. 

" '  Oh  yes,'  she  answers ;  '  they  was  all 
round  the  city — outside,  you  know  ;  and 
the  White  House  itself  was  on  real  risin' 
ground,  such  a  viewly  place.  Why,'  she 
says,  smilin',  '  it  does  seem  so  dreadful 


67 

queer  for  you  to  ask  if  there  was  mount 
ains  there,  when  the  first  thing  you'd  take 
notice  of,  'most,  was  its  bein'  such  a  hilly, 
high-ground  deestrict.  Why,  even  here 
in  Sugar  Hill  it  'pears  flat  and  low  when 
I  rec'lect  the  President's  land,  and  I 
come  out  here  and  look  at  Lafayette  and 
Kinsman,  and  all  these  Francony  hills, 
and  think  and  think  of  the  President's 
mountains  and  the  land  that  seems  some 
times  so  dreadful  fur  off.' 

" '  I  don't  like  to  look  at  the  mount 
ains,'  says  Ansel  Peabody;  '  they  make  me 
think  o'  how  we'll  be  callin'  on  'em  some 
day  to  fall  on  us  an'  cover  us,  when 
the  judgment  comes,  you  know;  and 
how  they  thundered  and  lightened  and 
smoked  up  and  earthquaked  in  com 
mandment  times,  and — oh,  I  tell  ye  they 
scare  me,  and  I  try  not  to  think  of  'em 
after  dark !' 

"  '  Why,  you  poor  young  one !'  says  Me- 
hetabel ;  '  they  make  me  think  o'  such  dif- 


68 

f'rent  things :  how  they  don't  change  no 
more'n  the  President  does ;  how  kind  o' 
quiet  and  restin'  and  peaceful  they  be. 
And  I  rec'lect  some  o'  the  sayin's  they 
had  there,  about  how  the  President  was 
all  'round  his  folks,  takin'  care  on  'em  al- 
lers,  just  as  the  hills  was  round  the  town  ; 
and  another  about  how  they  fetched  peace 
to  all  the  people  that  lived  among  'em. 
And  I  remember  —  oh,  such  pleasant, 
beautiful  things  that  happened  on  hills 
and  risin'  ground  !  The  President  set  lots 
o'  store  by  'em  himself,  and  deary  me ! 
there  wasn't  never  any  one  who  was  more 
fond  o'  mountains  than  the  President's 
son.  When  I  come  up  here  all  by  my 
self,  times,  you  know,  when  I  tell  you  I 
don't  want  you  for  a  spell,  why  them  times 
I  am  rec'lectin'  things  about  him. 

"'And  when  I  feel  lonesome  or  tired  or 
worry  a  mite  about  things,  I  jest  raise  my 
eyes  up  to  them  hills,  and  it  helps  me 
lots.  And  if  I'm  real  comfortable  and 


69 

happy — as  I  allers  most  gen'rally  be,  some 
how — why,  I  look  at  'em  till  it  seems  as  if 
they'd  most  bust  right  out  into  singin' 
tunes,  or  's  if  they'd  jump  for  joy  like, 
and  the  leastest  ones,  like  Bald  Mountain 
and  such,  would  dance  about  like  cossets.' 

"  You  see,  every  once  in  a  while  she'd 
kind  of  slip  into  Scriptur'  from  force  of 
habit,  I  suppose.  But  as  she  didn't  re 
member  'twas  Bible  language,  and  as  she 
put  it  into  plain  Sugar  Hill  talk  in  the 
most  sacrilegious  way,  why  'twas  worse 
than  not  usin'  it  at  all.  But  the  only 
time  I  ever  heard  her  quote  a  verse  lit'- 
ral,  was  about  the  mountains,  too.  But 
that  wasn't  exactly  appropri'te,  and  didn't 
mean  much. 

"You  see  them  two  banks  of  snow  up 
there  on  Lafayette  ?  Yes,  the  White  Cross, 
as  you  call  it ;  I  don't.  It's  nothin'  in  the 
world  but  a  long,  deep  holler  up  there, 
where  the  water  runs  down  in  a  wet  spell 
and  makes  a  watercourse,  and  that  holler 


70 

cuts  right  through  a  stony  ledge  up 
there,  and  runs  slantin'  down.  The  whole 
place  is  in  the  shade,  and  don't  ever  get 
the  sunshine.  So  it  stands  to  natur'  that 
the  snow  lays  in  the  holler  and  at  the 
foot  of  that  ledge  pretty  late  in  the  spring, 
and  don't  melt  till  after  it's  gone  from  all 
round  it.  And  so  that  holler  and  the 
bottom  of  the  ledge  looks  white  again' 
the  mountain,  and  as  they  run  acrost  each 
other,  so — like  the  sticks  of  a  kite  or  a 
cross,  if  you  want  to  say  so — why,  folks  call 
it  the  White  Cross,  as  you  did  just  now. 
I  never  call  it  that  myself,  for  I  believe  in 
givin'  things  their  right  names,  and  not 
coverin'  them  all  over  with  imaginin's 
and  make-believes;  but  if  there's  any 
class  of  folks  that  always  imagine  a  vain 
thing,  as  the  Bible  says,  it's  boarders.  To 
me  that  thing  up  there  is  just  snow  in  a 
holler  and  under  a  ledge  of  rock.  I've 
been  up  there  myself  and  know  what  it  is 
really ;  and  I  don't  want  to  play  it's  any- 


thing  different.  If  I  did,  why  I'd  be 
more  likely  to  feel  like  little  Ansel  Pea- 
body,  and  think  of  the  rocks  rendin',  and 
the  wrath  of  the  Lord  breakin'  the  hills 
asunder.  The  first  time  Mehetabel  saw 
it — that  is,  after  she  was  sick  and  lost  her 
religion — it  seemed  to  make  a  great  im 
pression  on  her.  Some  of  the  children 
was  with  her  that  day.  'Twas  the  last  of 
May,  and  there'd  been  a  fortnight  of  rainy, 
foggy  weather,  so  that  the  tops  of  the 
mountains  had  been  covered  with  clouds 
for  days  and  days. 

"  It  cleared  off  that  mornin'  while  Me 
hetabel  was  standin'  out  there  on  the  hill 
with  the  children,  and  the  fog  and  mist 
went  off  the  top  of  Lafayette,  and  the  sun 
shone  on  that  holler  and  the  ledge  of 
rock  where  the  snow  was  layin'.  And  as 
she  saw  it  it  seemed  to  remind  her  of 
somethin'  in  that  crazy  dream  of  hers. 
And  she  called  out,  with  the  tears  runnin' 
down  her  cheeks, '  He  lifteth  up  an  en- 


sign  on  the  mountains.'  That's  in  Isaiah, 
and  she'd  read  it  in  old  times.  And  when 
the  young  ones  asked  her  what  she  meant, 
and  what  she  was  cryin'  for, she  kep'sayin', 
over  and  over, '  It's  their  flag !  It's  the 
flag  o*  the  President  and  his  son  !' 

"  She  seemed  more  excited  and  stirred 
up  than  they'd  ever  seen  her,  Marietty 
said,  for  she  was  most  gen'rally  quiet  and 
even-like  since  her  sickness.  She  drawed 
the  boys  and  gals  close  up  to  her,  and 
pointed  to  that  holler  and  ledge  with  the 
snow  shiny-white,  and  told  'em  how  some- 
thin'  like  that  was  the  sign  or  mark — col 
ors,  I  suppose  she  meant — of  the  land 
where  she'd  been ;  how  it  was  on  every- 
thin'  there,  on  the  banner  over  the  White 
House  that  they  set  up  in  the  name  of 
the  President  and  his  son,  and  how  the 
soldiers  carried  it,  and  all  the  people  wore 
it.  And  Marietty  said  that  while  she  was 
talkin'  about  it  her  hands  shook  and  her 
eyes  was  wet,  and  yet  her  face  looked  all 


lit  up  in  the  sunshine,  as  she  went  on 
about  how  all  the  folks  loved  that  sign, 
and  wore  it  and  fought  for  it  and,  so  she 
said,  died  for  it  sometimes. 

"  '  Do  you  wear  it,  Aunt  P'niel  ?'  says 
one  of  'em. 

"  Her  face  looked  a  mite  troubled  for 
a  minute.  '  I  want  to,'  she  says.  "  It's 
my  sign ;  I  b'long  under  it,  and  I'd  die  for 
it  in  a  minute,  if  it  come  to  that.  But,' 
she  says,  hesitatin'  a  little  bit,  '  I've  al- 
lers  heerd  that  'twas  kind  o'  heavy,  and 
it  hurt  to  wear  it,  even  if  the  President 
and  his  son  fitted  it  on  to  you  theirselves. 
And  nothin'  hurts  me  nowadays,  and  I 
hain't  got  anything  hefty  to  carry,  I'm 
sure.  So  mebbe  I  ain't  got  the  right  kind 
yet.  You  ain't  never,'  she  says,  lookin' 
kind  o'  sharp  and  close  into  their  faces — 
'you  ain't  seen  me,  dearies,  look  's  if  I  was 
carryin'  somethin'  sharp  and  hefty,  have 
you?' 

"  '  Why  no,'  says  they,  and  Almy  Smith, 


who  was  allers  speakin'  before  she  stop 
ped  to  think,  puts  in, '  No,  ma  says  you 
look  a  terrible  sight  comfortabler  and 
pleasanter  than  you  did  before  you  back 
slid,  and  she  thinks  it's  queer,  too,  when 
your  folks  has  give  you  up  and  turned 
you  out,  and  the  meetin'  folks  won't  have 
you  belong  to  'em,  and  all  that.' 

"  '  Oh,  that  ain't  anythin','  says  Mehet- 
abel, 'jest  givin'  up  your  folks.  I'd  do 
more'n  that  for  the  President  and  his 
son,  jest  to  give  up  my  folks.  But  I  hope 
I'll  get  the  real  sort  o'  sign  to  carry  about 
some  day !  One  that's  hefty,  you  know, 
and  hurts.' 

"  When  Moses  Welcome  heard  all  about 
that — the  snow  on  Lafayette  and  what 
Mehetabel  said  about  it — he  went  to  his 
pa  with  it.  And  the  elder  told  him  not 
to  be  repeatin'  things  like  that,  for  'twas 
popish  talk  and  very  dang'rous. 

"  Well,  after  that  she  set  everything  by 
that  white  mark  on  the  mountain.  It 


only  lasted  a  few  days  that  year,  before 
the  thaw  took  it  away,  but  she  was  out 
lookin'  at  it  every  minute  she  could  get. 

"  She  had  to  work  pretty  hard  after 
she  left  her  brother's.  She  had  a  little 
garden  and  raised  her  own  roots  :  potaters 
and  turnips  and  such ;  and  she  took  the 
whole  care  of  that.  Then  she  pulled  rugs 
and  sewed  rag  carpets,  and  did  little  things 
like  them,  so  as  to  keep  along  somehow, 
and  it  didn't  take  much  to  keep  her.  But 
'twas  dreadful  queer  how  she  could  give 
away  so  much  out  of  her  livin'  to  the  poor 
and  the  children  and  so  on.  And  bimeby, 
of  all  things  in  the  world,  she  took  in  a 
poor  creatur'  to  do  for  and  keep.  There 
was  some  Injuns  from  Canada  come  down 
here  one  summer  with  baskets  to  sell  to 
the  boarders,  and  one  of  'em,  an  old  wom 
an  they  called  Tury,  she  was  took  terrible 
sick.  And  the  other  Injuns,  in  their  hard 
hearted  kind  of  way,  they  just  went  off, 
and  left  her  without  a  cent  or  any  one  to 


take  care  of  her.  Mehetabel,  she  heard 
about  it,  and  she  went  right  down  to  the 
place  where  she  was;  they'd  had  a  camp 
and  a  tent,  and  they'd  left  old  Tury  right 
there  on  some  straw  or  something;  and 
while  the  men  folks  was  discussin'  what 
town  she  belonged  to,  and  what  to  do 
with  her,  she  fetched  her  home.  She 
nursed  her  up  and  took  care  of  her  as  if 
she'd  been  her  mother  or  something  or 
other  to  her,  and  when  Tury  got  well, 
why  they  just  stayed  on  together  the  rest 
of  their  days. 

"  You  see  Mehetabel  really  was  good 
natur'd  and  never  wanted  to  see  any  one 
sufferin',  if  she  could  help  it.  But  that 
was  natur',  not  grace,  and  didn't  count  for 
much. 

"  Then  Tury  didn't  cost  her  a  great 
deal,  for  she  was  a  handy  old  creatur'  and 
did  all  she  could  to  help,  and  she  knew 
how  to  make  baskets  and  learnt  Meheta 
bel  how,  and  that  helped  along  some. 


But  the  real  reason  that  Mehetabel  kep' 
her,  as  I  always  held, was,  after  all,  to  pros 
elyte  's  you  might  say.  You  see  she  hadn't 
ever  had  one  follerer  in  that  silly  idee  of 
hers,  and  every  livin'  soul  that  has  an  idee 
of  his  own,  or  a  set  of  idees,  call  'em  art'- 
cles  of  faith,  or  creeds,  or  the'nes,  or  any 
thing  you  please,  he  don't  find  much  ex- 
citin*  or  rousin'  in  it  unless  he  has  some 
kind  of  follerin',  some  one  he  can  learn 
his  beliefs  to,  and  have  for  a  disciple. 
Now  Mehetabel  hadn't  ever  had  a  single 
one  really  before.  The  children  listened 
to  her  and  liked  to,  but  they  were  all  from 
orthodox  families,  even  the  laxest  of  'em, 
and  didn't  really  believe  the  yarns  she 
told. 

"  But  Tury  was  a  heathen,  I  suppose,  if 
she  was  anything.  She  was  a  poor,  fool 
ish,  ignorant  old  thing.  Whether  she  was 
really  what  you  might  call  'lackin"  or 
not,  I  can't  exactly  say,  for  she  was  the 
only  Injun  I  ever  knew  much,  and  mebbe 


78 

they're  all  that  way.  She  talked  a  kind 
of  outlandish  lingo,  but  after  a  spell  she 
picked  up  some  talk  you  could  under 
stand,  such  as  it  was.  So  here  was  a  ter 
rible  good  chance  for  Mehetabel  to  get  a 
follerer,  for  Tury  hadn't  any  set  beliefs, 
never'd  been  connected  with  any  church 
or  been  grounded  in  any  of  the  doctrines, 
and  'd  just  as  lief  take  up  with  a  false  re 
ligion  and  antichrist  ast  he  real  thing. 
And  she  did  take  up  with  it  dreadful 
easy.  You  see  she  got  sort  of  fond  of 
Mehetabel  when  she  was  takin'  her  in 
and  doin'  for  her,  time  she  was  sick  and 
deserted,  and  she  was  ready  to  believe 
anything  she  told  her  to  believe.  So'  by 
the  time  Elder  Welcome  was  ready  to  be 
gin  a  systematical  course,  as  he  called  it, 
of  religious  teachin',  why  he  found  she'd 
swallered  all  that  story  about  the  Pres 
ident  and  the  White  House  and  the 
President's  son,  and  he  couldn't  make 
any  impression  on  her  poor,  hardened,  de- 


79 

luded  natur'.  I  heard  him  tell  about  his 
first  past'ral  visit,  and  the  talk  he  had. 
Of  course  he  begun  with  the  law,  her  sin 
ful  state  and  just  deserts,  for  conviction 
comes  before  conversion  you  know,  and 
if  ever  there  was  a  class  of  folks  who  are 
steeped  in  original  sin  and  nat'ral  deprav 
ity  it's  Injuns,  I  suppose. 

"But  Tury  didn't  appear  to  be  weighed 
down  any  with  a  realizin'  sense  of  what 
he  said  about  her  sins.  She  was  a  polite 
old  creatur',  and  she  listened  and  nodded 
her  head  and  kep'  still  till  he  stopped  to 
take  breath.  Then  she  says,  in  her  odd 
Injun  lingo,  '  Yes,  Tury  bad,  much  bad, 
but  Tury  not  know.  Tury  know  now ; 
sorry,  much  sorry.  Misser  Pres'dent  un- 
d'stan' ;  son  tell  him  'bout  Tury.  He 
say  all  right,  all  right ;  poor  Tury ;  Tury 
like  me  now.  Tury  like  him  lot.  Tury 
be  good  now  ;'  and  on  and  on  that  foolish 
way,  till  the  elder  see  'twa'nt  any  use  no 
more'n  castin'  pearls  before  swine;  she 


So 

was  as  set  in  her  way  of  stickin'  to  that 
story  of  the  President  as  Mehetabel 
Clark  herself. 

"  I  said  that  Mehetabel  never  had  but 
one  out-and-out  follerer;  no  more  she 
hadn't,  in  one  sense.  But  there  was  one 
other  person  that  took  her  story  for  true, 
or  't  any  rate  acted  's  if  he  did,  or  's  if  he 
understood  it  all  and  didn't  object  to  it. 
That  was  a  summer  boarder.  He  was  a 
kind  of  minister  that  come  every  year  to 
Sugar  Hill  for  his  vacation,  not  bein'  very 
rugged  in  his  throat,  I  believe.  I  never 
knew  just  what  specie  of  minister  he  was, 
for  I  never  see  one  exactly  like  him.  He 
wasn't  a  Congo,  as  we  call  'em  round 
here,  nor  a  Methodist,  nor  a  Baptist,  nor 
a  Advent.  He  was  more,  in  some  ways, 
like  a  Cath'lic  priest,  but  he  wasn't  that 
neither.  Some  said  at  first  that  he  was  a 
'Piscopal,  but  he  wasn't  any  more  like 
old  Mr.  Miller,  the  'Piscopal  minister  of 
Hold'ness,  in  clothes,  or  looks,  or  actin', 


8i 

than  he  was  like  Elder  Welcome.  Come 
to  find  out  he  had  been  a  Tiscopal,  but 
he'd  been  promoted,  and  he'd  gone  up  so 
high  that  they'd  most  lost  sight  of  him. 
He'd  had  his  schoolin',  folks  said,  acrost 
the  water,  and  that  helped  to  make  him 
queer.  He  dressed  kind  of  uncommon, 
very  stiff  and  straight  and  narrer  and  up 
and  down,  some  of  his  clothes  fast'nin' 
behind  'stead  of  front ;  he  was  pretty 
pale  and  real  poor  lookin'  in  flesh,  and  he 
had  a  good  many  odd  ways  and  manners. 
But  I  will  say  he  was  a  nice,  pleasant- 
spoken,  kind  sort,-  and  did  a  good  deal  for 
Sugar  Hill  folks  of  all  d'nominations. 
Well,  whatever  his  own  religion  and  be 
lief  was,  'twas  something  that  didn't  pre 
vent  his  takin'  in  Mehetabel  Clark's  story, 
or,  any  way,  humorin'  her  and  makin'  her 
think  he  believed  it. 

"  He  boarded  at  Mis'  Deacon  Peabody's 
— she  was  one  of  the  female  pillars  of  the 
church — and  so  it  come  about  that  she 

6 


82 

told  him  about  the  disgrace  on  the  c'm- 
munity,  and  the  unbeliever  in  our  very 
midst,  thinkin'  mebbe  Mr.  Latham — that 
was  his  name — might  know  how  to  deal 
with  her.  He  was  real  interested,  and  he 
went  to  see  her.  Of  course,  nat'rally,  I 
don't  know  just  what  took  place  between 
'em  at  that  time;  but  Mis'  Deacon  Pea- 
body—she  happened  to  be  in  Mehetabel's 
yard  when  he  come  out,  though  she  hadn't 
heard  any  of  the  conversation — she  said 
Mr.  Latham's  eyes  looked  wat'ry,  as  if  he'd 
had  rather  a  painful  season.  And  when 
she  asked  him  if  he'd  succeeded  in  openin' 
Mis'  Clark's  sin-blinded  eyes  any,  he  only 
said  in  a  low  voice  somethin'  she  didn't 
quite  catch,  about  some  one  else  havin* 
done  that  for  her  a'ready,  and  hurried 
away. 

"  After  that  he  was  always  goin'  to  see 
Mehetabel,  or  P'niel  as  he  took  to  callin' 
her,  seein'  that  pleased  her.  And  folks 
said  'twas  the  craziest  thing  out  of  a 


83 

'sylum  to  see  them  two  settin'  there  to 
gether  by  the  hour,  talkin'  talk  that  no 
body  but  themselves  could  understand, 
with  old  Tury  puttin'  in  a  outlandish 
word  now  and  again,  as  if  she  follered  it 
all.  I  really  do  think  Mehetabel  made  him 
a  little  out  of  his  head  like.  His  brains 
wasn't  over  strong  anyway ;  he'd  used  'em 
a  good  deal — a  thing  brains  wasn't  meant 
for,  seems  to  me;  and  all  this  talk  and 
story  and  so  on  of  this  lost  sheep  went  to 
his  head.  Mis'  Peabody  says  so  to  him 
once  in  a  kind  of  warnin'  way,  and  he  only 
laughed  in  a  sort  of  'sterical  way  like  a 
nervy  woman,  and  says,  'Went  to  my  head ! 
To  my  heart,  you  mean,  my  good  woman.' 
"  In  spite  of  all  this  tamperin'  with  sin, 
and  humorin'  a  backslider  just  out  of 
what's  called  kindness  and  good-natur', 
I  don't  doubt  that  Mr.  Latham  was  a  real 
Christian.  He  seemed,  's  far  as  we  could 
tell.to  be  orthodox  and  sound  on  the  great 
p'ints  of  doctrine,  and  he  was  a  god-fearin', 


84 

serious -minded  man.  He  didn't  have  a 
good  mem'ry,  nor  much  invention,  any 
more  'n  most  'Piscopals  does,  and  had  to 
read  his  prayers  out  of  a  book,  instead  of 
makin'  'em  up  once  for  all  and  then  rec'- 
lectin'  'em  word  for  word,  as  most  people 
do.  But  he  did  pray,  even  if  'twas  only 
book  pray  in',  and  he  was  always  ready  to 
go  to  the  sick  or  troubled,  and  by  his 
doctrines  and  his  fruits  we  knew  him  to 
be  a  good  man. 

"And  there's  different  kinds  of  Chris 
tians,  after  all.  I  didn't  use  to  think  so, 
and  I  know  Elder  Welcome  never  come  to 
it.  He  thought  there  wasn't  only  one  sort, 
and  that  was  his.  But  I've  seen  things  to 
make  me  think  otherways.  There's  Jim 
my  Whitcher,  of  Francony — Fishin'  Jim 
my,  's  they  call  him.  I  don't  have  a  doubt 
he's  been  adopted,  justified  and  sanctified 
in  the  most  orthodox  way.  Nobody  that 
knows  him  suspicions  he  hasn't.  But  I 
could  wish,  and  so  could  a  good  many  of 


85 

us,  that  he  was  better  grounded  in  the 
doctrines,  and  had  set  when  young  for  a 
few  years  under  Elder  Welcome's  solemn 
preachin'. 

"  Well,  well,  how  I  am  spinnin'  out  this 
story.'  But  you  seem  so  interested,  and 
everything  comes  back  to  me  so,  as  we 
jog  along  through  this  section,  that  I  can't 
step  talkin'.  There  ain't  so  very  much 
more  to  tell,  anyway.  If  you're  lookin' 
for  a  sudden  judgment  on  her,  an  awful 
vis'tation,  like  Lot's  wife  or  Korah's  proud 
troop,  why  you'll  be  disapp'inted.  No, 
there  wasn't  anything  like  that,  not  even 
a  death-bed  repentance. 

"  Mehetabel  wasn't  ever  very  rugged  in 
her  health  after  that  sickness  of  hers,  and 
she  had  a  good  deal  to  try  her  afterwards. 
She  worked  pretty  hard,  and  I  suppose, 
after  all,  she  missed  her  own  home  and 
folks  some,  and  mebbe  took  to  heart  bein' 
so  cut  off  and  blamed  by  the  church  and 
c'mmunity.  Anyway  she  begun  to  fail 


86 

and  run  down,  and  didn't  seem  to  have 
no  great  of  strength.  The  children  said 
she  was  homesick,  that  she  kep'  sayin'  so. 

"  '  Homesick  for  where  ?'  asks  they. 

"  '  For  the  President's  land,'  she  says, 
'  and  the  White  House.' 

" '  I  don't  see,'  says  one, '  why  you  call 
it  home,  and  what  you  want  to  go  there 
so  much  for,  anyway.  You  ain't  got  any 
folks  there,  have  ye  ?' 

"  Oh  yes,'  she  answers, '  lots  and  lots  of 
folks.' 

'"  But  not  relations,'  says  another, '  not 
blood  relations.' 

"  '  Yes,'  she  says,  smilin'  to  herself  as  if 
she  knew  more'n  she  could  tell, '  that  is 
just  what  they  be,  blood  relations.' 

"  The  boys  and  gals  all  felt  sorry  for  her 
in  those  days,  she  looked  so  white  and 
poor,  and  talked  so  much  about  wantin' 
to  go  home.  '  Why  don't  you  send  word 
to  the  President  about  it  ?'  says  one  of  'em, 
wantin'  to  humor  her. 


87 

" '  I  do,  time  and  time  again,'  she  says. 
'Oh,  he  knows!' 

" '  How  does  folks  send  word  to  him, 
anyway  ?'  up  and  asks  Ansel  Peabody, 
seein'  the  weak  p'ints  of  her  story  as  well 
as  a  grown-up. 

'"Oh,  through  his  son  allers,  deary,' 
says  Mehetabel.  'That's  the  only  way 
there  is,  I  guess." 

" '  S'pose  folks  don't  know  how  to 
write,'  says  a  little  feller  that  hadn't 
learnt  yet. 

" '  Why,  they  make  their  mark,'  she  says, 
'  and  it  does  just  as  well.' 

"  One  time  she  got  the  queerest  idee  in 
her  head.  Mis'  Amos  Bowles  took  her 
Sabbath-school  class  over  to  The  Notch 
one  day,  and  they  come  back  full  of  the 
sights:  Echo  Lake  and  Bald  Mountain 
and  Profile  Lake,  and  partic'lar  The 
Profile  itself.  Now  of  course  Mehetabel 
had  seen  that  years  before,  but  I  don't  be 
lieve  she'd  been  there  since  her  sickness, 


or  she'd  forgot  or  something.  And  when 
the  boys  and  gals  begun  to  tell  about  it 
and  talked  away  of  the  Old  Man  o'  the 
Mountain,  and  how  he  looked  up  there 
again'  the  sky  and  all  that,  why  she  seemed 
terrible  int'rested.  And  after  she'd  heerd 
them  tell  how  big  and  high  and  grand- 
like  it  was — most  like  a  king,  as  some  of 
'em  said — she  took  it  into  her  head  that 
'twas  a  likeness,  a  sort  of  statue,  I  sup 
pose,  of  her  President.  She  asked  'em  so 
many  questions  about  it,  and  partic'lar 
about  the  kind  of  look  the  face  wore,  and 
they  all  agreed  ;  and  it's  a  fact,  you  know, 
that  'twas  a  hard  featur'd,  ha'sh-lookin', 
stony  face. 

"'But  mebbe,'  she  says,  'you  didn't 
look  at  it  right;  that  makes  such  a  dif- 
f 'ence.  I  rec'lect,'  she  says,  slow  and  hes- 
itatin',  's  if  she  was  tryin'to  remember — '  I 
rec'lect  there  was  somethin',  a  long  spell 
back,  I  used  to  look  at  the  wrong  way, 
and  it  scaret  me,  and — but  I  found  out,' 


89 

she  says,  brightenin'  up,  '  I'd  jest  been 
lookin'  at  it  wrong  side  afore.  Did  you 
try  every  way  ?'  she  asks  the  children, 
'and  didn't  the  featur's  sorto'  change  and 
get  soft  and  forgivin'  and  lovin'  any  way 
you  looked  at  'em  ?'  But  they  all  said 
'twasn't  so,  'twas  just  a  most  hard  feat- 
ur'd,  ha'sh-lookin'  face  from  any  p'int  of 
view.  She  wouldn't  take  their  word  for 
it  even  then,  but  she  kep'  askin'  other 
folks  for  days  and  days.  She'd  run  out 
with  her  ap'on  on  her  head  and  stop  a 
team  comin'  back  from  The  Notch,  and 
she'd  say, '  Did  you  see  The  Profile  to-day  ? 
It's  a  real  nice  day,'  she'd  say, '  and  the 
sun's  out.  Didn't  the  featur's  kind  o' 
lighten  up  'fore  you  come  away,  and  look 
softer  and  forgivin'  and  lovin'  ?  But  they 
never  give  her  any  satisfaction.  So  bime- 
by  she  made  up  her  mind  it  couldn't  be 
her  President  anyway,  and  it  seemed  to 
go  out  of  her  head. 

"  All  that  was  in  the  summer.     'Twas  a 


hot,  dry,  drouthy  season,  and  it  seemed  to 
pull  her  down  a  good  deal.  She  was 
pleasant-spoken  and  comfortable-lookin' 
still — too  much  so  for  one  that  had  ought 
to  been  weighed  down  with  thoughts  of 
her  sinful  state.  But  she  often  owned 
up  to  the  children  that  she  was  dreadful 
lonesome  and  homesick,  and  pretty  tired 
of  the  heat  and  the  drouth.  She  talked 
to  'em  about  the  President's  country  a 
good  deal.  From  her  account  it  must 
have  been  a  real  well-watered  deestrict, 
for  she  told  of  springs  and  wells  and 
fountains  and  brooks  and  rivers ;  one  in 
partic'lar  that  run  right  down  through 
the  town,  timbered  all  along  the  banks. 

"  Deary  me  !  everything  was  just  right 
in  that  place,  accordin'  to  her.  I'd  like 
to  find  a  section  of  country  like  it  my 
self,  and  I'd  settle  there  quick  enough. 
Climate  just  temp'rate  I  should  judge, 
for  she  said  the  sun  wasn't  ever  too  hot, 
the  streams  never  dried  up,  'twas  allers 


9' 

good  growin"  weather,  nobody  felt  the 
cold  too  much;  and  as  for  sickness, 'twan't 
known  there. 

"  As  I  said,  that  fever  of  hers  had  took 
away  all  power  of  feelin'  anything  very 
strong,  so  she  didn't  exactly  fret  nor  find 
fault,  but  she  owned  she  couldn't  hardly 
wait  sometimes.  I  don't  wonder,  if  she 
really  believed  in  that  place,  that  she  did 
want  to  get  off  there.  For  she  wasn't 
over-comfortable  in  Sugar  Hill,  sick  and 
lonesome  and  poor  and,  more'n  all,  con 
demned  by  God  and  man. 

"  The  boys  and  gals  tried  to  cheer  her 
up  and  divert  her  mind.  '  Ma  says  you 
use  to  sing  real  nice,  Aunt  P'niel/  says 
Joey  Barnes  one  day.  '  She's  heerd  you 
in  old  times  up  to  your  pa's.' 

"  '  I  disremember/  says  she.  '  I  didn't 
think  I  ever  sung  any  here  in  Sugar 
Hill.  I  sung  a  good  deal  at  the  Presi 
dent's.' 

"  '  Oh,  sing  us  something,  Aunt  P'niel,' 


they  says,  'something  you  used  to  sing 
off  there.' 

"  But  she  allers  shook  her  head  and 
says,  '  No,'  says  she, '  you  couldn't  hardly 
expect  me  to  sing  the  President's  pieces 
here  in  Sugar  Hill,  where  it's  all  so  terri 
ble  different.' 

"  Old  Tury  was  some  comfort  and  com 
pany  to  her,  I  suppose  ;  though  she  was  a 
good  deal  of  care,  too,  for  she  was  get- 
tin'  old,  and  needed  to  be  took  charge  of 
and  watched.  But  she  believed  every 
thing  Mehetabel  told  her,  and  she'd  heard 
it  so  frequent  that  she  knew  it  by  heart, 
and  got  to  believin'  she'd  seen  and  heard 
it  all  herself,  and  knew  the  President  and 
his  son.  And  as  Mehetabel  grew  weak 
and  Tury  grew  old  they'd  sort  of  chirk 
one  another  up  by  goin'  over  this  queer 
story.  '  Much  hot  now,'  Tury  'd  say, 
'  much  hot,  Nyel ' — that's  what  she  called 
her — "sun  burn  Tury.  Sun  no  hot  Mis- 
ser  President's  place  ?' 


93 

" '  Oh  no !'  says  Mehetabel,  '  the  sun 
never  strikes  folks  there,  not  to  hurt  'em 
any,  though  it's  real  light  and  shinin'.' 

" '  Water  dry  up  now  ;'  Tury  'd  say  ; 
'stream  low,  ground  hard,  grass  all  dry. 
Plenty  stream  there,  Nyel  ?' 

"'Yes,  plenty,  plenty,  plenty,'  Meheta 
bel  'd  answer,  'and  allers  full,  allers  run- 
nin'  and  cool  and  nice,  and,  oh,  Tury, 
when  I  think  of  'em  I  feel  as  thirsty  as 
that  deer  we  see  tother  day  runnin'  for 
Salmon  Hole  Brook !' 

"  '  Injun  there  ?'  Tury  asks  one  time. 
'Misser  Pres'dent  let  Injun  come?' 

"  '  Oh  yes,  yes,  Tury,'  Mehetabel  says, 
'all  kinds  o'  folks  that  was  ever  made  ;  he 
lets  'em  all  come,  and  glad  to  have  'em, 
too,  and  they  all  set  up  to  one  table  to 
gether.' 

"And  Tury  'd  grunt  in  that  outlandish 
Injun  way  they  do  when  they're  pleased. 
'Tury  want  flag,  Nyel,'  she  says  some 
times-;  'Tury  want  wear  Misser  Pres'- 


94 

dent's  mark,  son's  mark,  so  they  know 
Tury,  let  Tury  in.' 

" '  Yes,  I  want  that,  too,  dreadful  bad, 
Mehetabel  'd  put  in.  '  We  must  get  it 
somehow  or  'nother,  Tury.  Mebbe  we'll 
have  it  put  on  after  we  get  there.' 

"'Sign  all  white,'  the  old  woman  says. 
'  Tury  see  it  on  hill,  shiny-white.  Tury 
get  'em  put  it  on  face,  brown  face ;  then 
white  mark  show  plain.' 

" '  Yes,  it  does  look  white  up  there  on 
Lafayette,  don't  it?  But,  Tury,  seems  to 
me,  as  I  rec'lect  it,  'twas  red  there,  in  the 
President's  land ;  but  mebbe  I  disremem- 
ber.' 

" '  Flag  white,  Nyel ;  Tury  never  see 
flag  red,'  she  'd  say.  And  so  they  'd  go 
on  by  the  hour. 

"  We're  drawin'  nigh  home  now,  and 
there's  the  meetin'-house,  off  there ;  you 
just  see  the  steeple.  But  I'll  drive  slow, 
for  I  guess  we're  goin'  to  have  a  nice 
sunset  to-night,  and  you  seem  int'rested 


95 

in  such  things.  I  don't  notice  'em  my 
self  much. 

"  Mehetabel  failed  pretty  rapid  that 
summer,  and  by  September  she  took  to 
her  bed,  and  folks  see  she  couldn't  hold 
out  much  longer.  Mr.  Latham  hadn't 
been  up  that  year.  He  wanted  to  see 
the  leaves  turn,  he  wrote  Mis'  Peabody, 
and  so  he  'd  wait  till  fall.  About  the 
last  of  September  he  come,  and  he  felt 
dreadful  bad  when  he  found  out  how  low 
Mehetabel  Clark  was.  He  spent  most  of 
his  time  there  those  days.  He  was  alone 
with  her  and  Tury  a  good  deal,  and  no 
body  knows  all  the  things  that  went  on 
there  among  themselves.  But  I  can't  but 
hope,  as  a  Christian  minister,  he  tried  to 
do  his  duty  by  that  poor  backslider,  dyin' 
in  her  sins,  and  that  deluded  heathen  in 
her  blindness,  as  the  hymn  says. 

"  There  was  times,  however,  when  other 
folks  was  there,  too,  and  so  I  know  a  little 
about  things.  And  they  told  me  that 


there  wasn't  any  change  for  the  better  in 
that  poor  soul,  even  at  the  very  last.  Elder 
Welcome  acted  like  a  Christian  should, 
and  let  by-gones  be  by-gones,  when  he 
saw  she  was  so  nigh  her  end.  He  went  to 
see  her,  and  dealt  with  her  faithful,  for, 
he  said,  'twasn't  any  time  to  shrink  from 
a  painful  duty  when  she  might  be  sum 
moned  any  minute.  So  he  held  up  the 
comin'  judgment  plain  and  strong,  with 
out  slurrin'  or  smoothin'  over.  But  he 
told  me  afterwards  it  done  no  good  ;  she 
wouldn't  pay  any  attention  to  what  he 
said,  nor  ever  lose  her  quiet,  peaceable, 
smilin'  look.  That  had  all  come  back  to 
her  now,  since  she  was  so  weak  and  low, 
and  she  didn't  complain  about  bein' 
homesick  or  tired  of  things  any  more. 

"  The  doctor  thought  she  'd  better  be 
told  that  she  couldn't  live  a  great  while 
longer;  so  she  was.  But  her  mind  was 
wand'rrn'  a  mite  by  that  time,  and  she 
wouldn't  believe  what  was  told  her.  She 


97 

used  to  smile  in  that  old  way  of  hers,  as  if 
she  knew  more'n  anybody  else  about  some 
things,  and  she'd  say  that  she'd  allers  been 
told  she  shouldn't  never  die,  and  that  she 
was  goin'  back  to  the  President's  land. 
She  talked  with  the  children  when  she  was 
able,  and  they  got  the  idee  she  thought 
she  was  goin'  by  water.  And  when  they 
said  they  should  think  she'd  be  afraid,  all 
alone,  and  her  so  unaccustomed  to  sailin', 
and  it  bein'  cold  weather  now,  she  only 
whispered,  for  she  hadn't  much  voice  by 
that  time,  that  she  wa'n't  a  mite  scaret, 
and  she  wasn't  goin'  alone.' 

"  There  was  a  queer  coincidence,  as 
they  say,  about  that  time.  She  hadn't 
seen  the  White  Cross,  as  you  call  it — that 
ledge  and  holler,  as  I  say — since  May  or 
June,  of  course,  and  she'd  set  her  mind 
on  lookin'  at  it  again.  She'd  keep  askin' 
every  day  if  the  flag  was  up,  and  seemed 
to  think  she  must  hold  on  here  till  'twas. 
Old  Tury  kep'  tellin'  her  in  her  lingo  that 


98 

it  couldn't  be  hung  out  till  next  spring, 
and  Mr.  Latham  and  the  children  and  all 
tried  to  get  her  off  the  subject.  It  was  a 
warm,  soft  fall,  but  about  the  first  of  Oc 
tober  there  come  one  of  those  sudden 
cold  snaps  we're  liable  to  'round  here, 
and  the  thermometer  fell  fast. 

"  'Twas  a  bitter  cold  night,  but  in  the 
mornin'  the  sun  came  out  bright  and 
warm  again.  Old  Tury  went  up  the  road 
that  afternoon,  to  Mis'  Wells's,  to  get 
some  milk  they'd  promised  her,  and  when 
she  come  back  she  was  in  the  craziest,  ex- 
citedest  state.  She  run  into  Mehetabel's 
room,  and  'fore  they  could  hush  her  or 
stop  her  she  cries  out,  'Flag  out,  Nyel, 
Misser  Pres'dent's  flag,  son's  flag,  up  on 
mountain !' 

"And  sure  enough,  it  had  snowed  up 
there  enough  to  pack  that  holler  and  lay 
again' the  ledge,  and  the  sun  havin' thawed 
what  was  elsewhere  'round,  there  was  the 
White  Cross,  as  folks  call  it,  pretty  plain. 


99 

"  Mehetabel  took  it  very  quiet.  '  I 
knowed  he'd  put  it  up,'  she  whispered. 
Old  Tury  kep'  goin'  to  the  nearest  p'int 
where  she  could  catch  a  sight  of  Lafay 
ette,  so  as  to  come  back  and  tell  Meheta 
bel.  '  Flag  there,  Nyel,'  she'd  say,  hobblin' 
in,  '  no  gone,  flag  there,  shiny-white.' 

"  The  last  time  she  went  'twas  nigh 
sundown,  and  Mr.  Latham  and  some  of 
the  children  went,  and  I  was  along,  too ; 
and  there  come  just  after  the  sun  went 
down  a  kind  of  light  we  get  here  .some 
times —  I  never  see  it  anywhere  else — a 
red,  purply  sort  of  color  over  everything ; 
you  know  what  I  mean ;  I  think  we'll 
have  it  to-night,  from  the  looks  of  things. 
And  while  we  stood  on  the  hill  lookin'  at 
Lafayette  we  see  that  purply  color  come 
creepin'  over  things.  It  touched  the  trees 
there  on  the  Butter  Hill  road,  and  turned 
'em  yellerish-like  first,  and  then  pinky, 
and  it  went  along  there  above  the  Profile 
Farm,  and  the  side  of  Bald  Mountain, 


and  up  and  up  Lafayette,  makin'  it  all 
purply-red,  and  then  on  a  sudden  we  see 
it  had  reached  that  ledge  and  holler. 

"  'Twas  queer,  wasn't  it,  that  it  should 
have  happened  so,  when  Mehetabel  had 
allers  said  she'd  rec'lected  the  President's 
flag  red  instead  of  white?  It  seemed  to 
fit  into  her  story.  And  when  old  Tury 
run  into  her  room  and  dropped  down  by 
the  bed,  and  says,  '  Flag  red  now,  Nyel, 
flag  red ;  Nyel  say  right,  Misser  Pres'- 
dent's_  flag  red,  son's  flag  red,1  Meheta- 
bel's  featur's  took  on  a  peaceabler  look 
yet. 

"  I  wasn't  there  at  the  very  last.  Mr. 
Latham  was,  and  Tury,  of  course,  but  I 
never  heard  the  partic'lars.  A  day  or  two 
beforehand  one  of  the  children  told  me 
he  was  there,  and  Aunt  P'niel  was  most 
past  speakin'.  But  he  said  Mr.  Latham 
would  read  her  little  things  sometimes, 
and  again  he'd  say  a  word  or  two,  and 
she'd  rouse  up  and  smile  's  if  she  under- 


stood.  And  she'd  got  past  hearin',  too( 
I  guess,  for  the  boy  said  Mr.  Latham 
made  a  kind  of  sign  to  her,  and  she 
smiled  all  over  her  face,  and  moved 
her  lips,  and  old  Tury  she  says,  '  Flag, 
Nyel,  Misser  Pres'dent's  flag,  son's  flag !' 
And  so  she  was  deluded  to  the  very 
last." 

The  deacon's  voice  ceased ;  his  story 
seemed  ended.  We  were  all  very  still, 
though  thinking  of  many  things.  The 
wonderful  purple  light,  which  comes 
sometimes  to  those  Franconia  hills,  was 
touching  them  now;  and  as  we  drove 
slowly  along,  facing  old  Lafayette,  we 
saw  the  cross  upon  the  mountain -side 
stained  with  crimson.  The  deacon  saw  it, 
too.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  minutes. 
Then,  suddenly,  almost  as  if  the  words 
were  forced  from  him  in  spite  of  himself, 
he  said :  "  I've  told  you  this  about  Me- 
hetabel  Clark  as  we  here  in  the  church 
and  community  have  told  it  and  looked 


at  it — most  of  us — for  all  these  years.  It 
seemed  the  best,  or,  't  any  rate,  the  least 
dang'rous  way  of  puttin'  it,  and  I've  put 
it  so  to  you  to-day.  But,  mebbe,  it  ain't 
quite  fair  for  me  not  to  say,  before  I  leave 
off,  that  sometimes,  partic'lar  since  I'm 
growin'  old,  I  find  myself  lookin'  at  things 
a  mite  different.  There's  times,  and 
pretty  frequent,  too,  when  I  get  to  think- 
in'  that  mebbe,  after  all,  there's  another 
way  than  that  old  one  of  Elder  Wel 
come's  and  ours,  and  that,  somehow,  she 
found  it. 

"  I  don't  know  how  many  times  I've 
thought  that,  when  I've  been  out  in  that 
little  Sugar  Hill  buryin'-ground  and  seen 
Mehetabel's  grave,  just  a  little  ways  off 
from  my  Marietty's.  It's  so  sort  of  still 
and  hushed -up  like  there,  as  if  'twas 
waitin'  for  somethin',  and — it  makes  me 
think  of  things.  Mr.  Latham  took  charge 
of  buryin'  her,  you  see,  and  he  put  up  a 
stone.  Some  folks  didn't  think  he  done 


103 

just  right  to  put  Scriptur'  words  over  her, 
and  I  used  to  agree  with  'em.  But — I 
don't  know.  You  must  go  and  see  it 
some  day.  There  it  is,  cut  on  the  marble 
cross  as  plain  as  day  : 

44  4  STtiute  ejes  sljall  see  tjje  Ztfnfl  fit  ffifs 
beautj ;  fttts  sjjall  fcejottj  tjje  lairt  tjjat  is 
betj  far  off.' " 


SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

A  Collection  of  Seven  Stories.  By  ANNIE 
TRUMBULL  SLOSSON.  Post  8vo,  Cloth, 
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They  are  of  the  best  sort  of  "  dialect  "  stories,  full  of 
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a  frontispiece  which  is  a  wonderful  character  sketch,  they 
make  one  of  the  best  contributions  to  the  light  literature 
of  this  season. — Observer,  N.  Y. 

Quaint  and  exquisitely-told  stories. — Critic,  N.  Y. 

Stories  told  with  much  skill,  tenderness,  and  kindli 
ness,  so  much  so  that  the  reader  is  drawn  powerfully 
towards  the  poor  subjects  of  them,  and  soon  learns  to  join 
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pathos  and  tenderness,  that  one  finds  himself  in  perfect 
accord  with  the  writer  as  he  reads  of  the  hallucinations 
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Very  quaint  and  curious,  with  a  pathos  not  to  be  found 
every  day,  and  a  quiet  humor  of  a  delicate  and  delightful 
kind. — N.  Y.  Home  Journal. 

The  sweetness,  the  spiciness,  the  aromatic  taste  of  the 
forest  has  crept  into  these  tales. — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

Dreamers  of  a  singular  kind,  they  affect  us  like  the  in 
habitants  of  allegories — a  walk  of  literary  art  in  which  we 
have  had  no  master  since  the  pen  dropped  from  the  faint 
and  feeble  fingers  of  Hawthorne,  and  which  seems  native 
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Miss  Woolson  is  among  our  few  successful  writers  of 
interesting  magazine  stories,  and  her  skill  and  power 
are  perceptible  in  the  delineation  of  her  heroines  no 
less  than  in  the  suggestive  pictures  of  local  life. — Jew 
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Constance  Fenimore  Woolson  may  easily  become  the 
novelist  laureate. — Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Woolson  has  a  graceful  fancy,  a  ready  wit,  a 
polished  style,  and  conspicuous  dramatic  power;  while 
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able. — London  Life. 

Miss  Woolson  never  once  follows  the  beaten  track  of 
the  orthodox  novelist,  but  strikes  a  new  and  richly  load 
ed  vein,  which  so  far  is  all  her  own ;  and  thus  we  feel, 
on  reading  one  of  her  works,  a  fresh  sensation,  and  we 
put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  to  think  our  pleasant  task 
of  reading  it  is  finished. — Whitehall  Review,  London. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

E3F"  Any  of  the  above  -works  will  be  sent  by  mail, 
postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States, 
Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  Jrice. 


'ftiyp. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000672717     6 


